


Let me tell you a story about war

by jeanjosten



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Dark Neil Josten, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Exy, I have no patience and no self-control, I'll warn you tho I'm terrible at slow-burn so, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Neil never disappeared, Original Character(s), Past Drug Addiction, Raven!Neil, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, The Perfect Court (All For The Game), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-02-27 22:58:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 81,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13258386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanjosten/pseuds/jeanjosten
Summary: Nathaniel Wesninski is the third dangerous piece of machinery to Riko's Perfect Court. He's a Raven before the hour, and it's a somber wagon Jean Moreau is the latest addition to.Taller, older, fuming with pride and anger, dangerously charismatic and with a certain talent for causing trouble, he's the kind of threat Nathaniel should eradicate for his own sake. But Ravens operate on a pair-based system to enhance synchrony, and he's stuck with Jean whether he wants it or not.There can only be so long before one of them breaks, and Nathaniel is determined not to be the first.





	1. If you were walking away, keep walking

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has: [a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1157367950/playlist/5unUn7loUTaNOiVJHAYxeM) \+ [a pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.fr/oxymorts/let-me-tell-you-a-story-about-war-story/) both regularly updated
> 
> I have no plot. Ever. Don't cry, it gon be ok. I'm [wesninskids.tumblr](http://wesninskids.tumblr.com) if you want to reach out. Main inspo for this is the great [This Is What Hollows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9639437/chapters/21776339) by constellationqueen; [Falls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12893637) by nekojita; [ this Jean/Nathaniel fanart](http://cielleinthazure.tumblr.com/post/167773758080/exy-or-death-mini-bang-part-2-the-second) from cielleinthehazure and the title/chapter titles come from Richard Siken’s works or lyrics from the playlist. 
> 
> Basically two youngins trying to establish dominance and being gay. Also I tried to inform myself as much as possible (about the Evermore life mostly) but there are things which are going to be very different from canon, either because I don't know enough/anything about them or because they can't fit in this story the same way. I tried to show Jean's will to fight back as much as possible, also, but it's extremely difficult given all the circumstances. He's still way more rebellious than he is in the books timeline, though, so it's not that bad. First day is always a little rough but eventually he'll learn to rebel as much as Nathaniel. 
> 
> For the French translation:  
> 1\. “Go fuck yourself.”  
> 2\. “Oh no, that’s too easy. See, it's you and I against the world from now on. You get hit? I get hit in the same breath. I shine on the court? It's your victory. You hurt me? Oh,” he laughed, and it was awfully light for someone so dark. “I hurt you even more.”  
> 3\. “Hurry up up up, Cinderella, there are many balls left.”

 

“I wanted to hurt you but the victory was that I couldn’t stomach it.” RS.

 

* * *

 

 

It was never easy, being Wesninski—but Nathaniel figured he’d get used to it eventually.

He held little consideration for his father and even less for his family name, but it was unexpectedly effortless to take comfort in what it stood for. There was no pride to have when murder and horror tainted his blood, as if vice and immorality flowed in his veins—a cursed inheritance and legacy he could never seem to ignore. It manifested in inconsistent, blurry patches that left him shivering, bound to repeat the evildoings and the executions and the degeneracy; yet, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint the feeling, couldn’t name and couldn’t love it, being a Wesninski was as much of a reassurance as it was a grief.

Nathaniel could have spent his life wondering why he’d inherited his father’s charming, dangerous beauty rather than his mother’s stern and clever traits, but he never questioned it. It was easier to avoid his reflection than to confront it, and he was more than fine with pretending nothing could get to him.

It was terrible for a child to find relief in the lack of affection from parental figures, and where he could generally recognize his mother’s quiet fondness, he considered his father’s indifference with much more satisfaction. Not everyone could have understood the contentment he felt watching as his father hurt him again and again and again; it wasn’t contentment for the pain itself, but contentment he could easily go around fiercely hating his father without feeling guilty. Nathan Wesninski’s hypothetical attachment would have made it radically more difficult.

That’s also why Nathaniel wasn’t really surprised to learn about the deal he had struck with the Moriyamas. Nathaniel barely meant anything more than useless expenditure and a waste of time; a kid Mary Hatford had borne and loved and given birth to by accident. He meant distraction and opportunity and shame, an easy outlet for strong hands and clenched jaws, for smooth blades and hot-headedness. The very purpose of Nathaniel Wesninski could only last for so long, and eventually, Nathan decided his unwanted child would be more useful if he took advantage of his strong points.

Easy to say that Nathaniel didn’t have many. His easy rebellion and inability to submit made him difficult at times, but there were still things Nathan could have taken pride in that the Moriyamas would not. Fortunately, the reverse also applied. They operated on rather different planes, exercising pain and violence with opposite purposes and with more disciplinary means. While Nathan thrived in recklessness and spontaneity, Tetsuji Moriyama preferred control and perfect indoctrination.

That made Nathaniel a rather terrible candidate for his tutelage—until he’d step on an Exy court. And while his skill and determination were remarkable for a child his age, his self-control and ability to conform were critical necessities that rightfully justified a meticulous try-out. From afar, Nathaniel Wesninski didn’t stand a chance; pig-headed and violent, unruly and more than determined to speak his mind—but from up close he was terrifying, an investment that might be worth the effort.

At ten years old, he couldn’t tell exactly why he’d ended up at Castle Evermore, and why he’d stayed. At the time he was more than happy to bloom on the court, uninterested in whatever his father had to say about this. It was the first time, he realized, his father had both acknowledged and encouraged his passion for Exy, and he wasn’t going to criticize it. He should have known better, of course—so did his mother. Their secret weekly trips to outer town were bound to be exposed one way or another, sooner or later, and Nathan had chosen to make his best use of that misconduct instead of punishing both of them.

He was moved into the dorms instantly, few personal items his mother had brought with them allowed to stay, much less his mother herself—and for a long time, neither of them really bothered Nathaniel. He was independent, trusted, and dedicated to the thing he loved the most before he could even truly join a team. It was a future and it was a dream, and it was a much more acceptable outcome than his father’s ruthless violence and the loneliness of his childhood home.

 

* * *

 

There’s only so much you can do to rebel when you’re conditioned to obey. To bow, to bend your knees, to submit wordlessly. Nathaniel Wesninski had never liked obeying—to anyone. Out of spite, most of the time; a thing that could easily be expected of a Wesninski, even more so one that only Nathan could make fall in line. A troubled child, they’d say. No matter how many times he’d said sorry, no matter how many times he’d nodded and fell silent and obeyed, it was always a question of time before he would not.

Learning the limits of his own sense of self-preservation had been a rude wakeup call at Castle Evermore. It took more than a year for Nathaniel to find his place, and when he did, he traded his shameless rebellion with red-hot anger and a murderous smile.

He didn’t talk back as much as he did then, but his eyes carried the heavy disdain of pride and violence, both things Nathaniel had never managed to leave behind in his room in Baltimore, things he had, eventually, took comfort in keeping with him even through the rough scrimmages or Tetsuji’s pitiless wrath.

He was okay with going back and forth between spotless obedience and unshakeable uprising. He would suffer through violence, but if there was one thing Nathaniel Wesninski could bear without blinking, it was violence. He’d learned the rough way growing up in the same house as the Butcher, handling his father’s knives, defensing himself in spontaneous fights against his father’s men and Lola, closing his eyes when his father’s hands wrapped tight around his throat or slapped hard against a cheek. Oh no, he didn’t fear violence, and he was almost as good at inflicting it as he was at bearing it. It was a punishment he was willing to take if it meant he could remain himself a little longer, fighting back until it would feel inevitable to give up. Suffering the consequences of his anarchy alone, there was no leverage for the Moriyamas to take, no threat to keep above his head.

—that, until number four came around.

He’d always known how the Ravens worked. All in pairs, all in one synchronic motion that could be the only reasonable explanation for their terrifying harmony on the court. It was almost like they absorbed each other, more of an enormous and powerful entity than scattered individuals, and if it made the Ravens unbelievably strong, it made them paradoxically difficult to corner.

Until then, Neil had been the lonely addition of another already existing pair—Riko Moriyama and Kevin Day—sticking around when needed, dismissed when not. Sometimes he’d be under the temporary wardship of older Ravens, filling the gaps when halves were left alone or adding himself up to a duo. He never really did mind being alone; truth is Nathaniel had been alone since day one, watching for himself in Baltimore and learning faster than one could fathom how to grow out of childhood. An adult before its time, though immaturity and resistance lingered in his every move, and it made Nathaniel invaluable to Tetsuji.

It was only a matter of time, however, before he’d get paired up, and they knew it.

Riko couldn’t wait for the day, convinced Nathaniel would resent the company and make it worth his while, a great distraction that would warrant an outcome he didn’t care about. From the beginning, Riko had made it clear he didn’t like Nathaniel, and though both of them somehow knew it was out of fear and apprehension, it was a feeling Nathaniel had made a point to prove to be mutual. Tetsuji wasn’t interested in their dynamics and whatever they could possibly think about one another as long as it didn’t interfere with their performance, which made their feud a safe experiment to cherish.

But Kevin Day, who knew more than anyone the power of Raven partnership, in its perks as much as its dangers, never said a word about it. He didn’t really care, yet somehow, Kevin’s blurry affection for his younger teammate made him restless and anxious, and the only thing Kevin was with was the surreal hope that maybe, just maybe, Nathaniel would find his perfect match. He only found comfort in the certainty that there couldn’t be two Rikos in this universe, and that being paired up might make Nathaniel feel less alone.

Nathaniel couldn’t care less about solitude or comfort. He didn’t want to be followed, to be ordered about, to be watched and asked, to be the half of someone else. He was an entirety, he was whole, and he was never letting someone close.

 

* * *

 

By fifteen, Nathaniel was already the terrifying third piece of Riko’s stunning stunt. They called it the ‘Perfect Court’, which he didn’t mind as long as it put him in a good light, and to tell the truth, Nathaniel couldn’t possibly be put in a better light than that. As Exy grew more and more popular, as it started to be taught everywhere and watched on TV, there was no stopping the crushing wave of euphoria people created year after year. Riko’s name and status were all the press needed to pick up on it and make it a concept of genius, an idea born out of pride that held a surreal potential for entertainment, money and success. Fame wasn’t a possibility—it was a guarantee, and it didn’t take long for them to be stars.

Nathaniel got high on his supposed fame, too content to be a part of this striking trio to be offended by the number three drawn in unforgiving black on his cheekbone. He didn’t want to be the best—he wanted to play, and that’s exactly what he did. He was too young to be enrolled in the Ravens and too young to be taken away from educational priorities, but his temper and reputation got him a place at Evermore that nobody could deny. No doubt that somewhere in the facility, a jersey with his number and name was already waiting for him—and though Tetsuji couldn’t wait for him to be old enough to step on court, he kept him focused on studies still.

Learning French and math and literature wasn’t too bad, but he couldn’t help but think his place was on the court. More often than not, he sat on the bench as he watched the team restlessly train, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Observing the Ravens was as fascinating as it was troubling. They were made of fire and sparks, of a violence Nathaniel was well-acquainted to and handled perfectly. The indirect form of respect the Ravens held for him came partly from his name and partly from his temper, and he accepted it with a fierce stare that never shied away first.

Today, however, the Ravens’ scrimmage was off. Something wasn’t okay, and it didn’t take long to find out when he spotted all the usual numbers but the arrogant #1, and he searched his surroundings for Kevin. Though they were only seventeen, Kevin and Riko were allowed more time with the Ravens than he was, and as far as he could remember, he’d never seen one of the two on the court without the other. They were expected to play even through a fever anyway.

“Where’s Riko?” he let out hurriedly as he stopped by a far off bench, where Kevin was bent over tying his shoes again.

Kevin raised a curious gaze, as if wondering why one would linger on his absence rather than find relief in it, but he answered anyway. “He left this morning. With the master.” He only knew because men had picked Riko up in their quarters, and Kevin hadn’t seen them stick around long enough to figure whether or not Riko had been aware of his uncle’s plan. Either way Kevin didn’t care—as he rarely did when it didn’t concern Exy.

“Where?” Nathaniel asked, with the usual restlessness of someone who asks too many questions.

He received Kevin’s stern stare in return, but he was too good at ignoring his discontent to care.

“Why do you care? This is none of your business.”

Nathaniel snorted, and Kevin braced for violence as he knew it always came. “Not everyone is as painfully obedient as you are, Kevin. To be plain and predictable, what a comfort it must be.” His mouth curled to a familiar mocking smile, and it held no affection in the instant.

Kevin knew better than to think Nathaniel disliked him—if anything, he was his only friend around here—but he tensed up anyway. Older, taller and wiser, he was the closest thing to authority Nathaniel knew and accepted beside the Moriyamas. He rarely let him put him back to his place, and today would make no exception, but he tolerated his attempts with less resentment than he did the others. Kevin only meant well, even for his own sake. His selfishness was probably the only trace of Kevin’s sanity Nathaniel could find.

“If you’re that eager to find out, then wait for the master to come home and go ask him yourself. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see how involved you are getting. Don’t forget then that I’d warned you.” His disapproving frown wasn’t as tense as it should have been, and Nathaniel shrugged the reply off with a disinterested smile.

They both knew he wouldn’t, though, and Nathaniel kept his apprehension to himself.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t need to worry about it too long. When Riko and Tetsuji came back two days later, everything went back to normal, and he figured it wasn’t worth the attention—and it surely wasn’t worth asking. A broken finger took too long to heal, and he couldn’t bear to be strayed away from the court for more than hours.

The day after that, however, the ground shook so hard underneath Castle Evermore he thought the world was crumbling down. The image was striking, yet subtle; a change of pace only visible at the surface. By the time his morning language lesson was done and he was finishing his morning scrimmage with the Ravens, things had been added to his room.

His suite looked like any other dorm room, painted all-black according to the Raven color-scheme and made for two occupants. More than half the closet was empty, and he’d gotten used to seeing empty furniture collecting dust on the other side of the room. It was ghostly but it was comforting, knowing he was alone and didn’t depend on anyone like Kevin did. He’d often wondered, late at night, if being paired up would be brainwash him the way Riko had brainwashed Kevin, or if he’d manage to remain Nathaniel all the way through—but the sickening curiosity often led to apprehension, and he’d never lingered on it for too long.

Now the empty side looked every bit like Nathaniel’s, the bed neatly clean and made with black sheets that were never there. A few hardcover books filled half a shelf, and he didn’t need to open the closet to know. He walked around angrily, frowning so hard it was almost painful, he checked the halls where the door was open, scrutinized the bathroom and went back to his side of the room, again and again and again.

Nobody came.

 

* * *

 

It took barely a second to redraw his fake tattoo, knowing the shape of the number by heart by now. He could redraw it to perfection with eyes closed, and a part of him couldn’t wait for the day he would be legally allowed to make it real. It was insane, existing through a number; but it was familiar and comforting, and Neil didn’t care the number as long as there was one.

On weekends, the trio was allowed to practice with the Ravens except when their Friday games, states away, made them stay at luxurious hotels for the night. Saturday mornings were strictly reserved to the three of them, and the Ravens, if back from their away games, would stick to the weights room.

One of the coaches came around to tell them to get changed by four in the afternoon, and they headed to the changing room without a protest. The Ravens weren’t quite back, but it was only a question of time, and they were expected to be ready by the time they did.

The morning’s awful discovery had never left Nathaniel’s mind, and he hadn’t said a word about it to neither Riko nor Kevin—Riko, because he didn’t intend on uselessly starting conversations with him and Kevin because, where Kevin was, Riko was, too. He’d figured he would get his answers by the end of the day, or perhaps the day after; they couldn’t keep it a secret for too long before Nathaniel put his hands on it. Somehow, though, he hadn’t expected to find his answers so soon.

When Riko pushed the changing door open and both let themselves in, Nathaniel only stilled, a step behind. He let the door slam shut behind him and didn’t look back, neither did he step forward. Right there, next to his own locker, was a boy he’d never seen, a boy he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to ever see.

Jean Moreau stood in the middle of the changing rooms, neatly avoiding the curious glance Kevin sent his way and the unconcerned, disinterested way Riko walked past. Maybe it was Nathaniel’s stillness that finally caught his attention, because he raised cautious eyes towards him.

He didn’t know what he’d expected.

Right there, on Jean’s left cheekbone, was a clumsily draw but deep-black number four, and Nathaniel couldn’t fight back a rush of resentment, an unjustified surge of anger and, with that, the certainty it was all but a good idea. His eyes drifted back to Riko as Jean kept observing, and he didn’t like the sensation of being studied and memorized, no matter that it wouldn’t be enough to understand the intricate and unpredictable being that was Nathaniel Wesninski. Riko only looked back with a self-satisfied smile and went back to changing, meanwhile, Kevin only shook his head at Nathaniel in quiet disapproval, so Nathaniel walked to his own locker and ignored the infuriating proximity of Jean’s and his shoulders.

It’s only when Riko left the room ahead of them that he turned to Kevin.

“Mind explaining what the fuck is that?” he snapped, so quick and dry he felt Jean flinch behind his back. “I don’t want him.”

Jean’s response came before Kevin could even think of it, drowning whatever words he was preparing as a warning. “You think I wanted to be here, perhaps? You think I wanted that? Who do you think you are?” Rage cut a way through his expression and Nathaniel looked back, startled, not expecting resistance from the boy who hadn’t bothered protesting. Not a word had been said, and he’d felt the way Jean’s body was tense and wary, but at no point had he tried to get away.

He figured he was either way too passionate about Exy to bother, or too scared of Riko—but it didn’t add up right. There was more to it.

He stared at Jean’s cheekbone, noticing just now the lines of nails dug and dragged, most likely holding Jean’s head in place to mark him with the black pen. He’d fought, Nathaniel remarked; the lines were red and swollen, and tiny burgundy spots stained his pale skin where blood had showed and dried.

“Who do you think _you_ are?” Nathaniel said, and though Jean was considerably taller than him, he knew with the way he straightened up that he hadn’t, either, expected resistance from his side. Now they were both there, surprised and unassuming, bitter but decided to be the last to look away.

Nathaniel didn’t look away once, not when he slyly declared: “I don’t want need him,” and certainly not when he repeated a decided: “I don’t want him.”

Jean frowned hard but didn’t bow. It was clear by now he wasn’t going to, and perhaps Nathaniel could have felt some kind of respect for his blind obstinacy if it wasn’t so straight up suicidal. It was stupid and it was reckless, both towards Nathaniel and towards Riko. He wasn’t sure who of the two he should fear most, and it’s the only thought he needed for his lips to curl a little further, offering teeth and danger.

“Nathaniel,” Kevin stated, his voice a stern mixture of annoyance and caution. He took a step in his direction, probably with the idea to prevent a fight by stepping in.

He didn’t manage to do more than that, because Nathaniel pushed him away so hard he hit the row of lockers behind him. Jean stared incredulously, watching as they wordlessly fought for control—but then Kevin lunged forward.

Hierarchy didn’t look like much in these lockers that afternoon, and Jean could only take a step back and watch from afar, taking in every detail and information, mind warring between rage and caution, going back and forth on who of the two thought would walk away victorious. For now he was glad enough to be out of the conflict, though he’d been knee-deep in it right away. They’d seemed to forget about him—or so he thought.

Something slammed so hard he almost jumped, and both Nathaniel and Kevin stilled, a step away from each other. They should have known they’d barely have the time to fight when none of the Ravens were allowed enough privacy to even consider it. Riko appeared in the doorframe, discontented and impatient.

“What’s taking you so long? If you keep me waiting I can assure you you’ll regret this,” he slid through gritted teeth. His face wasn’t soft—it was furious with a long-practiced arrogance.

Nathaniel glanced at Jean, but he was smart enough to not say a word. Kevin excused the three of them in the background, but Nathaniel barely heard it—perhaps it was his stare that was enough of a warning, because Jean didn’t say a word, either.

It was most likely that Jean had understood by now that Riko would be the last one to pick his side, and the least reasonable referee he could possibly find, but Nathaniel found satisfaction in the slight possibility that, maybe, he feared him too.

 

* * *

 

Jean was excellent.

There was no point denying the obvious, certainly not when his job at defense was made two times easier. It felt smoother and spontaneous, as much as it was pleasant not to be alone anymore on this side of the court. But with years of practice and a passion on the verge of desperation, it was also safe to say Nathaniel was easily as skilled.

Their two-years difference startled Jean at first, and when at break, all the players gathered to hear the coach’s thoughts on their play—Tetsuji was somehow missing—he made a point to stare at Nathaniel all the way through. He was more than glad to stare back, an amused smile showing dangerous fangs; and by the time they were back on court, everyone had already picked up on the tension.

The only way it didn’t show on court was their position; being backliners meant pushing players away more than interacting, and whenever they stole the ball, they’d usually throw it further up the court to their strikers.

One couldn’t exactly say their practice had gone without trouble, much less that it was pleasant in any way, but Riko surprisingly appeared silent and reasonable, two things that Riko Moriyama definitely was not. He’d only barked with the well-known vainglory of a king child, walked around with a smug grin and arrogant eyes; but the training had been efficient enough that he didn’t get to hit his backliners. Instead, he’d focused on other players as their away game had drained most their energy, and Nathaniel felt grateful for the distraction. Jean didn’t seem to be smart enough to follow, glaring and glowering, mumbling low French and getting aggressive whenever someone got too close too fast.

Nathaniel knew better than to think it was beginner’s luck. He could tell Jean was trying hard to adjust to the Ravens, though their rhythm and efficiency made their fearless and almost impossible to catch up, but it was only a matter of time before he’d break and explode. Every move screamed rebellion, every glare was heavy with a bitterness that was bound to be expressed. There was little chance they’d survive evening practice—if he could clap for Jean’s patience, he wasn’t naïve enough to think it would last, and Riko would have two full hours to make him snap. Jean, Nathaniel and Kevin wouldn’t make a vast audience to witness Riko’s violence, but it was more than enough.

Part of him couldn’t wait to see it again, the bottomless anger in Jean’s gaze—another was bored and cynical. He knew this all too well by now. He knew the routines and the rhythms, the bad habits and the traditions. There wasn’t a day without a bruise, never a week without a wound. Jean’s arrival, however, though distracting and unusual, was only a gloomy warrant of pain and pain and survival.

Nathaniel played as a backliner, which meant he was best positioned to judge Jean’s worth on the court: it was electrifying, yes, but it wasn’t spotless, and Riko’s sly remarks made nothing to ease the edge off the play. The older Ravens didn’t comment, some only lingering as he walked past or gesturing in frustration for him to pull himself together. No matter how terrific, no matter how determined, his performance owed him the privilege to collect all the Exy balls scattered on the court floor, gather the team’s jerseys, clean up the gear and turn the lights off. It wasn’t much of a chore, Nathaniel knew; a work made light only because the day’s training wasn’t over. They’d have a short break, and they’d be back at it before they could even notice. Scheduling dinner after evening scrimmages made Nathaniel’s eating pattern difficult, stomach often too shaken to handle the food, appetite swept off by countless blows and exhaustion. Then again, the Ravens were independent as long as they were together, and a pair could skip dinner if they chose to. It was nobody’s business, and nobody cared. Nobody ever did.

He felt it coming before it even started. When Nathaniel lingered on the court, crossing nonchalant arms as he watched Jean bend to pick a ball up, curiosity and frustration could only be held back for so long.

Eventually Jean straightened and offered a searching gaze, one Nathaniel didn’t need to ask for. “What are you doing here still? Go the fuck away, I don’t you here.” The words earned him a smile, equal parts annoyed and amused.

“Funny you should say that. Haven’t they told you the rules by now? Please don’t make the mistake of assuming I want to stick around. I do not.”

Jean smiled back, but even it was all pride and aggression, Nathaniel saw right through it. It was fear—something familiar he’d learned to spot in a blink. He blamed it on growing up near his father’s circle, surely. “Then leave.” Nathaniel made no move to obey, and he didn’t expect Jean to violently throw the Exy ball halfway down the court in a blind frustration that could only escalate. “What rules?”

Somehow he took his question for a sign of weakness, and he rested carelessly his head against the Plexiglas. “I admit I was wrong about you. I’m quick to judge, but I’m working on it, I swear.” He unfolded his arms, but only to offer an exaggerated shrug neither of them could ever believe. “For a minute I really did think you were smarter than you looked. Perhaps out of self-preservation, but that would have been just fine with me.”

Jean frowned, lost. He looked seconds away from breaking his neck, but incomprehension obviously held him back. He tried to remember his first day at Evermore, the sharp taste of betrayal he’d swallowed when he’d realized he had been abandoned.

“The rules,” he started as he pushed himself off the wall and approached. It was a dangerous walk, one that resembled lions whenever they walked closer to a prey. Dominating, fearless, a promise of danger hanging off his lips. “They’re simple. You stick with me, and I stick with you. You don’t go anywhere without me. You follow. You swallow back whatever ego you’re struggling with right now, or I’m telling you, it’s not going to work. You choose, Jean,” and when he said his name it felt like an entertaining thing to do, and he decided he liked the sounds of it. “I can make it incredibly uninteresting, as I can make it incredibly painful.”

“If you think I’m going to let you, you are so wrong.” Nathaniel fought back the instinctive grin, but Jean went on anyways. “You have no right and no power over me.”

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong.” He stepped forward, and now there was barely enough for one of them to breathe. The proximity left them restless and feisty, bothered by a closeness they didn’t want to have but knew was necessary for their petty fight for domination over the other. “You have absolutely no say in this, and what’s beautiful, Jean, is that from now on you have absolutely no say in pretty much anything.”

Perhaps Jean didn’t understand, perhaps he fought Nathaniel was exaggerating or exercising his own ownership of his existence. Nobody had thought to tell him beforehand that his survival depended on a trade, and that by stepping into Castle Evermore, he’d left his right to be an individual way behind. It was a saddening souvenir to cherish, and Nathaniel had chosen to forget about it. It was healthier, easier, and somehow there was no point in resenting what couldn’t be changed.

“Va te faire foutre,1” Jean spat at his face, and Nathaniel’s face remained blank for a few seconds. It didn’t take him long to guess what it meant—insults weren’t exactly what his private tutor taught him in French class—but he could easily recognize the anger in his tone.

Jean pushed him hard enough for Nathaniel to lose his balance, but he almost instantly caught Jean’s wrists to bring him with him. “Oh no, that’s too easy. Tu vois, c’est nous deux contre le monde désormais. Tu te fais frapper ? On me frappe aussitôt. Je brille sur le terrain ? C’est ta réussite. Tu me fais du mal ? Oh,” he laughed, and it was awfully light for someone so dark. “Je t’en fais encore plus.2”

Satisfaction settled in his guts as Jean’s face visibly blanched. He marked this moment as the one he realized how terrible all of this was going to be, and if he was any smarter than he looked, he should have understood by now that Nathaniel was barely less awful than Riko.

Jean’s only chance resided in Nathaniel’s unconcern for him, a loner attitude grown out of boredom that could probably assure him some kind of peace. If they minded their own business and tried not to get in each other’s way, there was a probability, though slight, that their pair could work. If not, then Nathaniel didn’t really care anyway.

He was here to play, and he belonged here. On the court, with Ravens. It was his home—no matter how somber and lonely it was. Jean was barely a cloud on his sky, an inconvenience he was willing to ignore.

Jean fought back for his wrists, but Nathaniel held tight. Their height difference didn’t mean Nathaniel was any weaker; the Raven’s lifestyle kept him in shape and he’d probably gotten into more fights than Jean ever did. If anything, he looked like a bitter and indecisive spoilt boy, one who’d wear expensive clothes and ride horses. Perhaps did he even play golf and snort cocaine on the weekends, who knew. Nathan Wesninski’s wealth and status had never meant Nathaniel had any of it, and he’d never really found comfort in money anyway. Growing up at Evermore, though, had given him an unavoidable taste for pretty things he couldn’t afford, perhaps things like Jean. Growing up at Evermore, though, also meant he could discard them in a blink and never miss any.

“I’m not your enemy, Jean. But I can be.” He gave a frown as warning, then eventually let Jean’s wrists go. He rubbed them angrily, never looking away—that, at least, Nathaniel could give him. “Hurry up up up, Cendrillon3, there are many balls left.”

From here he could recognize the familiar scent of sweat and fury, but there was something else to it, something that only belonged to Jean. He couldn’t tell exactly—something between summer and fruits and recklessness.

If Jean had been clever enough, he would have figured that Nathaniel’s obligation to share both victories and losses meant he’d have to help him with his chores if Jean didn’t do it quick enough. They had to be ready by the time Riko would call them up for evening practice; if not, Jean could only guess what would happen to him. To them.

Jean, though, was only a spiteful child long-used to act before he could even think. It was a knee-jerk reflex born out of pride and spontaneity, something that made him as lively as dangerous. He didn’t have half Nathaniel’s unpredictability, however, and as he fell silent to clear the court from its gear, Jean promised himself to live up to his expectations.

He’d make his life a nightmare, and then Nathaniel would regret every saying those words. If Nathaniel thought he could make him fall in line, he was going to love every bit of his brutal disappointment when he would prove him wrong.

 

* * *

 

Jean was efficient and quick to work, but his new surroundings and his unwillingness to obey slowed the process unexpectedly. By the time he was finished with all his tasks, it was almost time for evening practice, and Jean followed him to the changing room with a grim look.

“It’s not worth changing now,” Nathaniel smirked when Jean started to pull on the bottom of his t-shirt. It was stained where the grey material had soaked in body sweat, and clung to Jean’s muscles like a second skin.

Jean let his hands fall flat against his thighs and looked around. Now that they were the two of them again and that distractions were long gone, there wasn’t much to do, much less to say. In between them floated something terrible they didn’t want to address, but Nathaniel thought it might explode before dawn. Someone like Jean didn’t look like they’d take it on the chin and deal with it. They barked and barked and barked back, until it was clear they couldn’t bark anymore.

Jean would lose his fangs in this fight.

When Nathaniel pulled a phone out of his locker, though, Jean stared more than he’d have wanted to. “You have a phone?”

The bored stare Nathaniel gave him lasted barely a second. The screen lit up and he checked something Jean couldn’t see from there. “You don’t,” he replied, not quite a question.

“They took it from me.” Jean’s words sounded like an accusation, and it was strangely directed at Nathaniel. Of course—he was the only target for Jean’s open wounds, an anger still so fresh it could burn anything. “Why did they let you keep it?”

Nathaniel tried to not linger on the way Jean’s _you_ sounded in his name; awful and rough, heavy with the rudeness of an insult.

“I don’t have anyone to call,” he simply said. He didn’t shrug, and he didn’t look up, but he did feel Jean’s frown and the way it went back and forth between light pity and disinterest. “You, though,” he said as he locked his phone and looked up. “You look like someone who’d run away on the first occasion.”

Jean didn’t bother denying it, somehow. “These rules are stupid. I’m not going to stay here.”

“Gentle is the youth’s delusion. Convince yourself of whatever helps you sleep at night.” He didn’t say he’d tried time and time again to get out, and no matter how long he’d managed, he always drifted back here—with a heavy punishment that would have eased off the urge to leave for anyone. Then again, Nathaniel wasn’t normally constituted, and violence was the last thing he feared. He had a sickening feeling Jean wasn’t as used to it, like a spoilt child brought into a world of torture and gloom, and he held back a tired sigh.

Jean walked around the lockers after that, checking all doors and examining surrounding gear and lockers. He didn’t pry but he memorized the entirety of it, as if preparing an escape plan already. Chances were he was only distracting himself, however, and soon enough Kevin and Riko pushed the door open in the same united movement. Nathaniel didn’t bother look up and simply reached for his deodorant while Kevin sat on the opposite bench to change. They shared a quick and quiet look, but Nathaniel slowly shook his head, uninterested in whatever Kevin had to say. When Riko was around—which was most of the time—he only talked in silences and weary eyes, and there was few things Nathaniel disliked as much as this.

He could have forgiven Kevin’s attitude if he wanted to; oh, he had all the reasons necessary to a compassionate comprehension. But Kevin was a privileged, gifted player who didn’t live on the same plane of existence as Nathaniel, and that was enough to keep them apart. Truth was Nathaniel hated him as much as he didn’t, jealous of his safety at Riko’s side, jealous of his bright future, jealous of the number two already tattooed on his cheekbone. He felt like the younger sibling hanging behind, unheard and forgotten, and he couldn’t take it.

They changed in silence, but the calm didn’t last. Jean accidentally bumped into Riko as he straightened up, and Riko instinctively pushed him against the lockers. He held him there with a tight grip around his throat, and when Jean refused to apologize—though it had been a complete accident—punched him in the lower lip. Riko’s blows often were destructive, but Nathaniel knew with the way blood barely showed on his pink lip, that Riko was keeping the best ones for practice. He was a savage that only dominance and admiration satisfied, and he didn’t want to prematurely spoil the pleasure.

For a sick, brief moment, Nathaniel wondered what Jean looked like beaten two hits away from death, bruised and bloody, breath heavy with pain and fatigue. It didn’t seem like a nice sight to have, much less carry around Evermore. In fact, Jean looked pure and pretty, he looked like something that’d never quite been broken. He would have shuddered if he wasn’t so numb to violence, but it left him feeling more annoyed than he was about himself. Kevin rarely got hit, and he didn’t care much about his own health—Jean’s well-being was as much of a new things as it was troubling. It didn’t want to have to worry about it, and he really shouldn’t have to.

Practice got instantly efficient, though it didn’t last long. Riko had never let him go on one on one or let another Raven in defense to balance out the players, so it’d always been him against the two. It made a tiring and impossible fight, but it somehow always let Nathaniel improve. Fighting off two strikers with the unexpected presence of another backliner wasn’t a relief—it was the terrible evidence that Nathaniel already was a monster by himself in defense. Now that they were even, they were unstoppable, more efficient than Riko had expected. It didn’t help his never-ending bad mood, but it faded anyways, Jean barely used to their pace and relentlessness. Endurance was a must on the Raven line, be it only for their practices. It was survival, it was necessity.

Jean got to breathe again when they switched to Raven drills, and Riko executed the cone drill by himself, proud enough that he wouldn’t let Kevin shine uselessly. He didn’t want Jean to imagine things: Riko was the best, Riko was king. All truth started and ended with this. There was no other thing worth learning on the Raven court.

In scrimmages, Jean was alert and spontaneous, but in a precision drill, his flaws quickly stuck out. Nathaniel watched as Riko’s mouth twitched minute after minute, and it didn’t take long for his racquet to slap Jean across the back. He fell to knees, struck breathless and off guard, and Nathaniel could only watch. Riko’s threats quickly escalated, and Kevin looked away at the nonchalant: “Next time you fuck up, it’s Nathaniel’s turn.” Being punished for someone else’s mediocrity was a new thing, and it left him fuming. He felt like warning Jean, but it was as useless a thing as it was idealistic. Jean couldn’t possibly perfect the trick on his first day, not even his first week, and Jean didn’t care about collateral damage anyway. Nathaniel took the blows without protesting, too annoyed to do anything but glare back, and eventually it was Jean’s turn again.

When Tetsuji came back, he didn’t interrupt the drill. He stood on the inner court, unmoving and quiet, and when Jean’s racquet slipped off his tired hands, it was Tetsuji who took it upon himself to give him a good hiding. The familiar smack of Tetsuji’s cane on Jean’s hands was nothing, but the distress in Jean’s eyes was troubling enough that Nathaniel looked away.

He turned out when Jean kept talking back, again and again, hardly satisfied that he wasn’t the only one sane enough to stand his ground. Now that the two of them were bound to each other, it was only egoistical for him to protest, and it was hard to be compassionate with that knowledge.

By the time the drill was done, however, it wasn’t worth arguing. Kevin and Riko disappeared to the changing room, and Tetsuji stuck around long enough to order them around and warn them about their terrible performances. Nathaniel knew he’d done good, but he hadn’t exaggerated—Jean’s losses were his losses, and there was nothing but losses for Jean today.

Nathaniel didn’t move, not when Jean collected the cones and the balls and the racquets; neither did he when Jean searched around for the cleaning supplies. And when Jean tripped on his feet, falling on his bruised hands and knees against the floor, Nathaniel only watched. And to make it even more terrible, he left three minutes before Jean could, though he was aware of the consequences of being found alone. Evermore’s underground quarters being vast and intricate, Jean took two more minutes than he should have to find his room.

He didn’t knock, and Nathaniel didn’t look up when he came in. None of them said a word. There was no need to: Jean was all rage and dislike, fuming in silence as if too exhausted to really care. Nathaniel assumed it didn’t want to fight anymore, perhaps reserving it for tomorrow, but it’d be a terrible mistake—Jean would hate tomorrow even more, and it was only the beginning.

He couldn’t help himself when Jean sat on the edge of his bed and hid his face in shaky palms. “So why did your parents give you away? You didn’t say.”

Jean looked up instantly, and his grey eyes were indignant and sullen. “Don’t talk about things you know nothing about,” he spat, but he didn’t look away. Nathaniel knew it was coming and braced himself for violence, like he always did. “Why did yours? No, don’t tell me. The unwanted child, the burden. Why even bother? You’re worth your cost on the court, how much did they receive in exchange?”

Nathaniel flinched but barely. He was used to Riko’s psychological violence by now, and Jean only looked like a terrified teenager who simply wanted to come home. If anything, he’d deserved the words; he didn’t stop him either way.

“Come on, you’re seventeen right? You’re not old enough to join the Ravens and you still have to graduate. You’re not here to join the Ravens, not yet. You’re here because you’re a deal. A fucking business deal,” he said, and he smiled slowly. Teeth showed in the lazy darkness of their room, and Jean pushed himself off his mattress in a second.

By the time he spat the words, he was already right in front of him, and Nathaniel felt obliged to get up, though it wouldn’t save him much. Their height difference was critical, but he didn’t mind. “How old are you, fourteen? You’re a child.” It seemed like a threat, but he knew it wasn’t; it was the slow process of a retort.

“Fifteen,” he let out through gritted teeth.

“You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you? Now tell me, who’s the business deal?” Jean’d never seemed that determined to prove a point, but he could understand the necessity of it. Jean needed to diminish his pain, he needed to convince himself there was worse than him.

Nathaniel could have found a way to contradict him, but it wasn’t worth it. They stood in silence for a few seconds, both fully aware that they were a deal as much as the other. When it was clear this had been clarified through glares, Jean leaned in and frowned.

“I don’t want you, you fucking child.” Nathaniel barely shrugged, eyes lingering on the dry blood where Jean’s nose had been snapped by Riko’s racquet. “I guess nobody does.”

Nathaniel couldn’t care less about other people, much less what they thought of him; but he was getting thoroughly irritated by Jean’s shaky bravery. He wasn’t going to be the outlet of his indignation, and it was time for him to understand it.

He went for the easy parts; a soft punch in the guts and a quiet kick in the shin. He didn’t need to look to know these were where Riko had hit the most—waking the bruises and wounds up would be terrible. It was enough of sudden pain for Jean to lean forward, grabbing his middle like it could somehow ease the pain, and Nathaniel grabbed his chin.

It was easy to take hold of his throat after that, and easier to push him against the wall and hold him still. Jean frowned in discomfort, air barely going through his windpipe; he growled low but made no effort to get out of his reach. He was at least wise enough to know it would only make it worse.

“Now listen, _Jean_ ,” and Jean wasn’t sure if it sounded like an insult or like a threat. Most likely both. “I want this about as much as you do. I can’t wait for the day you’ll be far, far away from me. Your attitude is obnoxious and will cost us both too much trouble, much more than you’re worth. I won’t spend my time warning you and I certainly won’t spend my time making sure you get away.”

He could have stopped there: the point had been made, and Jean didn’t say a word, more obedient now than ever before. But he went on anyways, with a dangerous tone he knew was his father’s, yet on a softer note than Jean was probably expecting.

“I’m the only ally you have from now on, and you better remember that. Once you lose me you’re all alone.”

He tightened his grip just to see Jean’s brows furrow a bit tighter and his glare blacken with anger. Then, he let everything go, and Jean’s hands went for his throat to inspect the damages. He was going to be okay, either way, it would have been impossible to tell the damages among Riko’s if Nathaniel had gone harder on him.

And he could have, oh he could have. Somehow, though, he knew hurting Jean would be pointless.

If Nathaniel was Jean’s only ally, after all, the reverse was also true.

“Feeling hungry?” he asked out of nowhere as he crossed nonchalant arms, like nothing had happened.

Jean was still patting his skin for new bruises, though clearly relaxed by the three steps back Nathaniel had taken. It wasn’t to leave him space to recover, it was to get space for himself, but that, Jean couldn’t possibly know. He mistook this for respect and Nathaniel let him. “No,” he growled, and if Nathaniel could hear the lie in it, he didn’t bother telling him.

Maybe Jean was hungry, but he wasn’t ready to meet the Ravens, nor was he to spend more time in Riko’s presence than necessary. He’d eat in the morning. As for Nathaniel, he barely ever ate.

“Fine with that,” Nathaniel nodded as he turned away. He couldn’t remember the number of times he skipped dinner, especially after Riko’s rough treatment. Today he was doing good, and he could sadly blame it on Jean’s existence. He knew better than to think Jean was going to be a permanent distraction, however: soon enough they were going to be both equally punished, and Nathaniel wouldn’t be able to hide in the shadows of Jean’s clumsiness any longer.

He hoped Jean would be smart enough to spare them a few useless blows, but he didn’t say it. He’d said enough. He’d said too much.

Nathaniel pointed a figure at their bathroom and vaguely gestured toward the few medical stuff he’d collected over the years. Enough to disinfect, clean and stitch, with gaze, cotton balls, needles and countless dressings. Jean nodded without a word, gathered what he needed and sat on his bed. By the time Nathaniel came out of the bathroom, fresh and clean, tapping a towel on his temple to dry his red hair, Jean was lying across his bed, halfway through stripping, undeniably asleep.

He stood there for a minute and watched, curious. Jean looked so much different when he was asleep: peaceful, trustful and careless, far from being on the defensive. He looked younger, somehow, or perhaps was it the bruises already forming on reddened skin; and Nathaniel thought he reminded him of himself.

But they were different, they were so very different. Nathaniel’s purpose was to play, Jean’s wasn’t. Nathaniel’s family didn’t miss him, though he sometimes felt his chest tighten at the thought of his mother; Jean’s family was supposedly softer and more loving than his was, or maybe it was simply Jean who loved them too much. Either way this felt like a betrayal, ripping his throat open, sore and bloody, and Nathaniel couldn’t possibly understand when he’d always been alone.

Always been alone until now, at least. He sighed and tore his gaze away from Jean. He didn’t like it, or he really didn’t, and everything about Jean felt like a terrible idea. This couldn’t go well and he knew it.


	2. You do the math, you expect the trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intimacy, violence, violence, intimacy and violence. In other words, Jean slowly understands he will not get out of here unharmed, and the both of them make their shaky, wobbly first steps towards trust and codependency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, WHAT. Thank y'all so much for your feedback, it means the world and I've never seen people as pure and as positive as this community. 
> 
> I'm in the middle of finals but lbr my main priority is this shit of a story. I struggled my lots to finish this chapter, mainly because French is a bitch and English not being my main, it's often complicated to describe just as well without being redundant—and partly because I didn't and still don't like what I've written here for the most part. It ok, it ok though, because soon enough the interesting stuff is going to come. 
> 
> I'm at wesninskids.tumblr or oxymorts.tumblr if you want.

Raven partners could only get away with forced intimacy for so long. It didn’t take long for Nathaniel to realize they hadn’t gotten a good look at each other on the first day, and the realization fell upon him in the middle of the showers.

It was a useless effort to shower after morning practice, but necessary for those who couldn’t stand walking around in sticky sweat and smelly clothes until the next practice.

Neither Jean nor Nathaniel did stay long in the showers—there was no point in lingering in the middle of the day, and generally, it was late at night, long after Riko’s ruthless drills that Nathaniel would stall. It was an easy thing to do, blows and hits distributed without any sort of moderation, often making the process of washing up and changing way more intricate than it was supposed to be.

Jean’s determination was starting to shake at that point, frustration getting the best of him and pulling his focus away from the drills. His performance hadn’t been any better than the last, and Nathaniel had stood on the sideline while Riko ordered him around. Needless to say Jean had been told to put the gear away, and it had taken Jean long enough that the changing room was already empty when they got back. And, with the two of them filling up silence with mutual bitterness, it was hard to ignore each other’s presence for too long.

It was Nathaniel who glanced first. It was weak and hardly decided, something nonchalant that could have been accidental. There, without arm guards and Exy gear to hide the mess, it only took him a few seconds to spot the track marks in the crook of Jean’s elbow. They didn’t look good, and they had this terrible shade of desperation that hinted they were still fresh enough to be delicate. Nathaniel lingered a second too long, but when Jean held his stare, he didn’t say a thing. He didn’t look away, and he certainly didn’t apologize for staring—in response, which was only fair, Jean took the liberty to stare in his turn, guilt and respect for one’s intimacy buried deep inside to Nathaniel’s lack thereof. They were a destructive reflection of one another, imitating and daring and unstopping. The level of provocation they were willing to show wholly depend on the other. And if one of them triggered the slightest fight, the other would go at it full-force and shameless.

Shameless wasn’t entirely right to describe the way Jean’s eyes squinted at Nathaniel’s scars. He looked at them like he couldn’t quite see them, and Nathaniel watched coldly as his gaze went up and down his bare body. He was searching for the worst, he could tell; the scar that would explain it all. But there was no trace of explanation, and Jean studied the iron-shaped patch of clear skin like it’d give him everything he needed to corner him.

He knew fully Nathaniel was only daring him to ask the question that burned his lips, hanging on the border of it like a heartbeat-quick danger. Jean could still feel the intimidating length of Nathaniel’s fingers holding his throat still, the carefree and jaded way he’d showed him how easy it would be to choke him unconscious. He’d squeeze, hardly lightly, and in a matter of seconds Jean’s brain wouldn’t be delivered enough oxygen to function correctly. Pass out was the only possible outcome.

It was a tricky yet terribly simple thing to do, a modest ploy his father had used against him countless times. It was relatively harmless, if done correctly, and it was more efficient to shut Nathaniel up than to beat him senseless. His own son had mastered it, eventually. Riko was the last spark he needed to develop his innate skills at damaging other people.

“Junkie,” Nathaniel growled, light enough to be mocking and low enough to be unconcerned.

“Martyr,” Jean growled back as he looked away.

The two showers between them weren’t enough to grant them intimacy. They could have gone to opposite sides of the room, but it would have been utterly stupid and vain. Eventually, they would have been forced to confront each other anyways, and the sooner the better. It was a necessary step, though unpleasant, and Nathaniel didn’t care as much about his scars as he did the heavy gaze people generally allowed themselves. It was incredibly rude, and perhaps he would have grown the bad habit of a violent reaction if he wasn’t so detached about his own existence. Everything here belonged to the Ravens, his body included, and there wasn’t much he could do to get rid of these scars anyway. They were part of him.

Wordless questions floated in the silence, and though the water flow wasn’t enough to cover the echo of Jean’s curiosity, Nathaniel chose to ignore it. He stared at the tiles in front of him until he’d feel his calves hurt from standing there unmoving.

Even as he left the showers did he feel Jean’s eyes following him, and it took every ounce of control to shrug it off. Jean was looking at him like Nathaniel was abnormal and didn’t realize it; like something awful had happened and Nathaniel himself refused to acknowledge it. It was suffocating and terrible, and for a second Nathaniel was brought back to the house in Baltimore. The cornering darkness, the deadly silence that never bode well. There were things Jean wouldn’t be able to understand and he knew it.

He wasn’t naïve enough to assume Jean was going to forget about what he’d seen. It was relatively useless, and most of the Ravens had gotten used to it in a matter of days. Befriending freshmen in the showers was always a delicate thing, but with a few glares and clenched fists, they’d understand eventually. Jean, though, was stupid and stubborn. It was the first bit of intimacy they were given away unwillingly, and Jean’s eyes remained oddly thoughtful after that—constantly examining, searching, looking around as if he’d find the answers in the distance. Jean keeping his questions for himself was the only thing that kept Nathaniel from snapping, but it was hard to feel grateful for that.

* * *

It took Jean two more days to grow anxious. Ravens rarely got out of the Nest, and none of the underground room had any light coming in. From the outside—from the surface. They were buried underground, trapped and forgotten, unlucky children that nobody would go after. They were left here to rot, and one could only bear the absence of sunlight for so long.

Ravens were used to it—mostly because they’d often get in and out of the building, going from class to practice and practice to class. They’d go to away games in the huge, luxurious buses, and they’d be allowed on special occasions to attend public events. Interviews, meetings, banquets and galas, anything that Tetsuji considered useful and relevant.

Jean—much like Nathaniel—had no use to get out yet. Their classes were given by private tutors on the inside of the Nest, and they couldn’t play on the Raven lineup until they’d register at Edgar Allan officially. Perhaps it was something that Jean hadn’t thought about in the beginning, because it fell upon him like a terrible realization, and Nathaniel could barely do much else than watch as he tiptoed one panic attack after the other.

Jean didn’t really expect help from Nathaniel, and Nathaniel made it pretty clear it’d be useless anyways. None of them really did talk, and when they did, it was often Exy-related topics they couldn’t or didn’t want to discuss with other people and, even more often, it backfired in fights. Sometimes Nathaniel would make a point with his fists, cornering Jean and holding his throat fierce—sometimes words were brutal enough. And though Jean couldn’t really get under Nathaniel’s skin, he found it horridly easy to get under Jean’s. There were things he didn’t know, things he didn’t understand—none of which he ever asked. But Jean’s surface and unsteadiness was too easy to shake, and it felt somewhat pleasant to cherish the knowledge he had that much control over Jean.

One could have said Riko did, too, but he didn’t. Not really. Riko shook until the fruits would fall from the tree, but he didn’t know how to make the roots rot; that, specifically, was Nathaniel’s specialty. It was innate.

Oh, it didn’t help that Jean and Nathaniel couldn’t go very far without the other. Nathaniel resented his past half-freedom, something meek and insufficient that somehow was enough for him still. Now, now that Jean was around, now that Jean was Nathaniel’s, there was no such thing as individuality or free-will anymore.

The Nest’s all-black décor finally got to Jean, and when they walked into the changing room ahead of Riko and Kevin, Nathaniel felt him flinch so hard he paused.

He snorted, though quietly enough to be cautious. He’d never really been around anxiety-ridden people aside from Kevin, and Kevin never let him witness any panic attack he’d have. “Afraid of the dark yet?” He felt Jean tense at his sides, but he didn’t move, not even when Nathaniel went for his locker.

The lights flickered on automatically, triggered by the movement, and Nathaniel gave an irritated glance in the door’s direction.

Jean was a terrible, incredibly intricate thing. He was hard to handle at times, and predictable in others; he was both delicate and fierce, both brave and weary. Sometimes he couldn’t bear Jean’s weakness, and sometimes it’s Jean’s temper that got him over the edge. Jean was never quite right, never quite steady—he was a paradox of all extremes and the world’s ends melt into one right in his half-innocent half-dangerous pupils.

If anything, Jean Moreau was a different kind of danger than Nathaniel. He was silent and subtle, he was gracious and delicate. Whenever he could feel Jean’s self-control wavering, though, he got a step closer to discovering how much fucked up of an individual Jean Moreau actually was. A child left behind, a selfish sacrifice. It wasn’t about the things that could keep him up at night—but the nightmares he was capable of inflicting to others. That part, Nathaniel found unquestioningly interesting; but at no time did Jean give the hint he was going to break.

It could have been disappointing if it wasn’t so practical. Jean staying in his lane meant they’d get less backlash from Riko, and most importantly, that Nathaniel would keep a fierce upper hand on Jean. A part of him knew too well it wouldn’t last forever, but he didn’t want to linger on that knowledge for too long unnecessarily.

Now, Jean was breathing hard, and there was nothing he could possibly do to ease Jean’s distress. Mostly because he didn’t want to, but also because he had no clue as to what to do. He chose to pretend he couldn’t hear the ragged, tense rhythm of Jean’s respiration; and eventually, Jean got moving. None of them brought this up.

Kevin and Nathaniel sat on one of the home benches during practice. Riko was going hard on Jean, and none of them really wanted to stick around to witness that. They knew things would be alright once Jean mastered all Ravens drills, but for now, practice would be an unpleasant and dreadful thing none would look forward to. Nathaniel had weighed more than once the possibility of helping Jean to quicken the process, grindingly annoyed by the delay Jean’s shortcomings put on their usual training, but the answer was always the same in the end. He owed nothing to Jean, and Jean didn’t deserve his help.

He accepted the punishment Jean’s performance always involved, smiling impetuously at Riko’s face to prove it never got to him. He accepted the constraint of standing there while Jean cleaned the court. He accepted, he accepted, he accepted. It didn’t mean he approved any of it.

“Be there before lunch,” Kevin eventually said as they quietly drank their water bottles. Nathaniel didn’t look up, so Kevin went on. “Riko has something to tell you. To the both of you.”

“Why so?” he barely bothered. It didn’t like the way his own existence had been closely linked with Jean’s, a name hardly mentioned without the other. It left him feeling like they couldn’t exist on their own, depending solely on the way their pair made them complete. The concept was stupid, and Nathaniel loved his individuality too much for that.

Kevin gave him a thoughtful glance, weighing pros and cons Nathaniel couldn’t really put a finger on. Whatever Kevin was thinking about, nobody could ever tell. He was too obedient and too quiet, his face a solid mask of concentration and anxiety. He only tapped his own cheekbone with a finger, and Nathaniel looked at Kevin’s tattoo.

“He’s just arrived,” he tried. He didn’t really know what he was trying to do and why he was doing it, but it felt necessary.

It didn’t shake Kevin’s floating interest for all that. He simply shrugged, uninterested in whatever would happen to their marker-drawn numbers.

“The order comes from the master. Don’t question it.”

Nathaniel didn’t try to grab his attention once more and simply left his gaze wander towards the court. Jean was visibly struggling, and Riko was more than happy to send his racquet flying, snapping hard against innocent flesh. Nathaniel didn’t flinch—but he tensed, imagining all the ways he could make up for Riko’s violence. Riko was never alone, but he better not be.

* * *

It was official enough that they sent the same tattoo artist that’d taken care of Riko and Kevin—and unofficial enough that only Neil was required to attend. Riko and Kevin had better things to do, and Tetsuji would never bother for so little. It left Nathaniel as the last and only option, though it never seemed much like a choice anyways. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been left alone long enough to think, or at least, long enough to forget about Jean.

Nathaniel might well think about it, he couldn’t tell what irritated him most. Being here because Jean’s existence required it, or watching Jean get his official number tattooed before he even could.

It was understandable; Jean was seventeen and he’d been hand-picked personally by Tetsuji and Riko. Whatever deal they’d struck was definite and non-negotiable, and it made Jean an official and steady piece in Riko’s games. Though Nathaniel had been there for way longer, and though he was a much more dangerous and efficient pawn than Jean, he was still too young to be legally tattooed, and there was no way Tetsuji could tiptoe around that. Rules were rules, and their artist had never budged no matter how many times he’d been asked to take care of Nathaniel’s number. Each time they were told it was only a matter of time and that they had to be patient, to which Tetsuji and Riko never responded too well. Nathaniel, on his part, loathed the waiting more than he could tell.

The man took about twenty minutes to prepare and clean the setting, Jean obediently sitting in a chair as he did; but Nathaniel had seen both Riko’s and Kevin’s tattoos get done. He knew it’d only last a minute, and somehow all the beforehand preparation was never easy on the nerves. Jean looked off, he noticed right away; he looked sick and thoughtful, probably wondering why things had shifted so brutally for him. It was barely four days since he’d arrived and he’d still hadn’t gotten over it. Nathaniel couldn’t even try to understand—it wasn’t like he’d ever been closer to his family than he was to Exy—but Jean looked thoroughly alone. Desperate even, when he’d glance aside at whatever void attracted his tired eyes. It was almost enough to pity him.

Nathaniel wasn’t one to like the feeling of it, however, and pushed it as far as he could until it’d feel foreign again. Jean’s proximity was starting to cause things he didn’t enjoy out of exposure, constraints he’d stupidly thought himself willing to deal with without really knowing what they were. Oh, there were too many. More than he could work with. If it meant dealing with Jean’s fragility, he was going to loathe this.

He watched with detachment as the artist rubbed Jean’s cheekbone again and again and again, so harsh and quick Jean’s skin was left red. It was clear the black marker wouldn’t completely disappear, but it was faint enough that it didn’t matter. He patted the swollen skin with cotton pads and alcohol, and then he drew Jean’s number with an ease that reminded Nathaniel of his own. It’d taken a while for him to memorize the perfect shape of his ‘3’, the size and the curves of it, the way it’d look straight on his cheekbone even when he’d smile—but he eventually learned to retrace it eyes closed. It was Riko, who’d drawn Jean’s number. He still remembered the red lines left on Jean’s face—it should never have surprised him that Jean would protest.

Now, oddly, he didn’t even flinch. He did look up, and it didn’t take long for him to spot Nathaniel, leaning against the far-off wall with a disinterest that was only half-truth. Their eyes met and argued in silence, Nathaniel resenting him for getting his number before him, and Jean resenting the very necessity of it.

Jean couldn’t even start to understand how Nathaniel could be proud of such a mark of ownership, of such a brand. It was Riko’s leash made visible, and it was terrifying. He didn’t know why Nathaniel looked forward to, and Nathaniel didn’t know why he acted as though being number four was a terrible thing. It was an honor—not in relation to Riko or the Moriyamas, but in relation of what it stood for. It meant Jean existed—it meant he was extraordinary. That he belonged here. That he could haunt and destroy and petrify. That there was only one Jean Moreau out there, and that it was him.

It was pride and it was recognition. It was taking his helmet off and welcoming with a sly smile the roar of the knowing crowd. It was blooming in victory, in the endless pursuit of utter perfection.

Jean’s voice echoed more than it should have. “What if I’m not a number four? What if I’m a five?”

Nathaniel knew it was directed at him because Jean hadn’t yet looked away.

“Then do your best to keep your rank where it is.”

A part of him knew Riko wouldn’t have accepted Jean around, much less in his so-called Perfect Court if he wasn’t even remotely monstrous. This number was a proof and a confirmation. Yet, somehow, he knew too well where Jean’s doubt came from: he was here because of a transaction he’d been part of him, traded like a handful of bills, and it made his legitimacy questionable.

Oh, he’d felt the same when his father had abandoned here like it was the best investment he’d ever done. But whatever doubt ate him up from the inside, Nathaniel made up for it by being the best. And he’d succeeded.

“Will you teach me the drill?” Jean asked absentmindedly when the needle went in. he could barely move his lips without pulling on the skin of his cheek, but it felt like a necessary effort to make.

Perhaps it wasn’t that much, because Nathaniel’s response was only a faint, unconcerned, “no.”

* * *

It was generally hard to ignore the odd pair they made, but harder now that Jean’s cheekbone was covered in gauze. A bit of skin shone under the ceiling lights where the ointment stuck out.

“They’re staring,” Jean commented as he pulled his seat and sat.

Nathaniel, on the opposite side, didn’t bother look up. “Let them.”

Public scrutiny wasn’t something Nathaniel could call new. He’d gotten used to it year after year, be it thanks to the Ravens’ harsh interest, or by the medium of public appearances. And though he couldn’t attend games or play on the lineup, he could already handle the uneasiness perfectly. It was obviously not Jean’s case, who probably came from a cocoon of comfort and familiarity and was all but used to being the center of attention. Maybe it was a beginner’s shyness, Nathaniel couldn’t tell—but it was clear unrest, and it made Nathaniel glance at him to check for the signs of a panic attack.

There were none—Jean’s shoulders were tense but strong, and his gaze, though shying away from the Ravens’, was fierce and determined. It wasn’t like he could back away now.

Perhaps did Jean pick up on the attention, because he retaliated in seconds.

“Why don’t they like you?” Jean wasn’t smiling; his eyes, however, shone with a dangerous light—that same one he’d seen on the first day. Jean’s anger was there, right there, obedient but awake.

“They respect me,” he corrected.

“But they don’t like you.” The difference was infinitely small, but it was there.

“You go ask them.”

Silence settled between them, and Nathaniel took his time to pick the right words. He wasn’t one to assume, and he wasn’t one to care. Do both inadvertently just to prove a point would be stupid. He didn’t want Jean to get ideas—but he didn’t want Jean to know more than that, either. _Stalemate_.

“They fear what they can’t understand.”

Jean frowned, obviously confused. Metal clattered around them, but Nathaniel was quick to focus again.

“I’ve been here for longer than any of them, and I’ll still be there when they leave. I’m a public character and a name, or, should I say, a number? All Ravens are proud. It doesn’t mean they support each other.”

“So it’s jealousy?” Jean half-asked, half-deduced. He gave a careful glance to his surroundings, as if measuring the level of threat around the both of them.

“Perhaps,” Nathaniel shrugged. He’d never really wondered. “I wouldn’t know. There isn’t much about me to envy.”

“For someone so harsh and touchy you sound unexpectedly skilled at holding little regard for your own person.” It could have been a snarl, but it wasn’t. Jean looked honestly puzzled, and Nathaniel didn’t know what bothered him more.

“Why should I?” he asked, because he really had no clue. Holding little regard for his own person was a consequence of being the Butcher’s son, but he wasn’t going to tell Jean.

“You’re your only friend, that’s why.” Jean’s words seemed wise, but he knew better—it hid a thick layer of loneliness that he could only express through experience.

Someone stared a little too hard at Jean’s cheekbone, and though he didn’t seem to notice it, Nathaniel did. It only took a second for him to stare back, and the girl eventually looked away in startled timidity. The Ravens could hardly be described as timid—but Nathaniel’s gaze was chilly enough that they’d look away first. It granted him more intimacy and respect than he should have had, and he hadn’t quite realized how much Jean was going to benefit if he even bothered to make the Ravens respect him, too.

When Jean realized he wasn’t looking at him, he twisted in his chair to locate the object of his attention. The girl made a point not to look again, and the group was visibly forcing itself not to return the glare. He almost asked Nathaniel what he’d done, but instead it was Nathaniel’s turn to talk.

“I have no friends,” Nathaniel reminded him, and it oddly felt like a warning more than a statement. He didn’t know who he was trying to warn, though.

“Do you even know what that means?”

“Do you?” he snapped back, irritated.

Jean visibly blanched, and it was the only satisfaction Nathaniel was getting from their pointless conversation.

“See.” He paused, thoughtful. Every word felt like a danger to say aloud, and for someone who’d never really hesitated before speaking his mind, it was terribly unpleasant. “Guess we’re alone now.”

He’d certainly meant alone on their own side, far, far away from one another—but it came out differently, and he could feel in the way Jean stared that he’d felt it too. It wasn’t worth trying to explain it when all the Ravens were whispering in groups, getting high on gossip with the two of them sitting right there a few feet away. It was obvious their supposed alliance wasn’t entirely made up for publicity or efficiency.

Somehow, it was the first time they felt this ‘us against the world’ feeling, and it left them shuddering with distrust.

Someone entered the room and the boy’s eyes instantly fell on the gauze. They were familiar enough with Riko, Kevin and Nathaniel’s presence that it would be a natural and instinctive thing to do, beyond the casual curiosity of people. Still, Nathaniel took it upon himself to glare until the boy raised unsettled brows and looked away. He followed him as he walked up to a far-off table, and stared another minute to make sure they would leave Jean alone.

If they were bothering Jean, after all, he’d have to deal with it as well, and he didn’t need that. This time Jean caught him as he did, and though he brushed and hovered thoughtful fingers above the gauze, he didn’t point it out.

* * *

It was only a matter of time before it happened, Nathaniel should have known. Slowly but surely, Jean was getting used to the system and, to some extent, to the level of precision he was expected to reach. It made Jean more efficient on the court, and though he couldn’t knock the cones off correctly, he was on the road of progression.

They went back to normal two lineups scrimmages on group practice, and when Riko asked which of the two backliners he should mark, Nathaniel devoted himself. That was his first mistake—but it was acceptable, given how pleasurable it had always been for him to bug Riko and make him blow a fuse.

His second mistake, though, was to think it was reason enough to best Riko. It was no secret that he was a terrifying backliner, faster than any of the Ravens Kevin included, with absolutely no remorse to inflict violence. He knew how to tiptoe around the delicate rules of body-checking perfectly, sometimes pushing it to the punishable limits. He couldn’t get red-carded in practice, and they needed him anyway; no Raven was currently as efficient as he was, and being able to practice against the Perfect Court was a guarantee to get used to a much better level than their usual official opponents. Somehow, though, the occurrence of sending Riko down to the ground remained rare and dangerous.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d checked Riko so hard he’d ended up on the floor—but it was definitely before Jean’s arrival. When Riko stumbled in a loud thump and the team stopped moving altogether, Nathaniel knew it was coming.

It took only a few seconds for Riko to get up, send his helmet flying in a fuming gesture and pick up his racquet to put him back to his place. Riko would often say it was like falling off a horse or raising a hunting dog—it had to be done right away, without second-thought.

Nathaniel didn’t fear violence, especially not Riko’s, but he instinctively protected his face nonetheless. He still had his helmet, but vicious players like Riko liked to reach from under the grating. Somehow, however, the impact never came, and he opened his eyes to spot Riko.

He was way too far and he was walking way too quick. He barely had the time to register Jean’s startled expression and Kevin stepping to the side before Riko aimed right at Jean’s ribs. The protection gear should have been enough to reduce the damage, except Riko kept going, ferociously smashing his racquet against Jean’s shoulder, Jean’s hip, Jean’s arm. The court fell silent but for Jean’s jerky breath and the rustle of clothes as both moved.

It itched, it really did. Nathaniel felt like calling Riko out, telling him how low it was to punish Jean simply because Nathaniel was a skilled enough player to prevent Riko from scoring at the goal. And perhaps he should have done so.

Except when he opened his mouth, nothing came.

Riko only stopped when Jean stumbled to his knees, shaken and unsteady, patting his ribs to inspect the damages but barely focused enough to register them anyway. He didn’t look up, but Nathaniel never tore his eyes off Jean, even when Riko stopped a breath away from him.

The warning didn’t only reside in the way Jean winced from the pain that lingered—it resided in the low, familiar chuckle Riko had no qualm letting out. “See, Nathaniel, that’s what happens to rabid dogs. They get punished—one way or another. You better learn your place by the time I come close again.”

It hurt to let Riko think he was too vulnerable to stare back at him, but he didn’t want to leave Jean unwatched. It was already his fault.

It should have stopped there, it really should have. Except it grew on them both, frustration and anger staying viciously close, and Jean made a point to keep Kevin from scoring the slightest goal. Nathaniel should have done the same—and even without really trying he was good enough to set back his opponents. Sometimes it was enough for him or dealers to get the ball, sometimes it was just enough to make things difficult for Riko before he’d eventually score. He was as terrifying as Nathaniel was, that much was true, with the crucial difference that Nathaniel was forced to stand down.

It made the fight anything but equal, and Jean couldn’t stand it much longer. He was already injured and shaken up, all but used to the violence that accompanied trainings. He was lucky Tetsuji wasn’t always there, and it mostly was because the Ravens’ level wasn’t yet where Riko’s already was, and that he trusted his nephew to put them in line until they’d have nothing left to learn from him. By then, Riko would be a Raven himself, and then Tetsuji would take it upon himself to raise them higher than they’d ever been. Tetsuji or not, however, it wasn’t any simple for Jean to accept defeat so easily, and Nathaniel kept nervously glancing his way as he could tell Jean was losing both focus and patience.

When Riko came for him, Nathaniel gave just enough resistance that it made Riko move around. It was pointless for Nathaniel’s development, but still physical enough that they would get sore from it at the end of practice—yet, from afar, it was as pathetic as could be. Jean wasn’t fooled, and when Riko went back to half-court after an umpteenth goal, Jean went straight for Nathaniel.

Ravens distractedly watched as he crashed into him, pushing him away so hard Nathaniel stumbled. They all knew how bad of an idea it was, even before Jean let his racquet fall to the ground and pushed him again. There was only so much Nathaniel was willing to tolerate before fighting back, even though it meant hitting his partner. He’d warned him, again and again and again. It wasn’t his fault Jean was either deaf or stupid. Both, most likely.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing,” Nathaniel growled low enough for it to be heard only between their breaths. He didn’t want Riko to join the conflict.

Jean tried to push him a third time, but Nathaniel pushed first, harder than he’d expected. They went back to one another instantly, attracted like magnets and fueled by each other’s red-hot anger.

“We’re losing,” he reminded like Nathaniel wasn’t painfully aware of it. On the other side of the court their strikers were doing a great job, but it was pointless when Riko was in the opposite team. “What do _you_ think you are doing by letting him win?”

“You should go back to your position,” Nathaniel warned. It was low and dangerous, and it vibrated in his throat like a pulse. It was only a matter of seconds before he’d lose control, and he was never sure when he could get it back. He cursed his father’s temper for a short second, but forgot all about it when Jean’s helmet bumped hard into his.

They pushed against each other’s forehead, trying to push the other off balance as though to settle the argument. Nobody intervened, and though he didn’t see Riko anywhere near, probably entertained by the inner feud, he spotted Kevin’s livid face from here.

“Jean,” he pleaded. He didn’t really want to do this, but he would if he had to.

“You’re way fucking better than him,” Jean went on nonetheless, and Nathaniel could only thank him he was speaking in growled whispers. “Why would you let him push you around?”

“That’s how it works.” When Jean made no move to go back to his position, Nathaniel frowned so hard it was almost painful. “Are you out of your mind? He’ll have no pity for you if I repeat my latest stunt.”

“I’m not going to let us fail.”

“It’s just a game,” Nathaniel reminded. On a court, he could understand—the crowd roaring enthusiasm and the players sweating with anger and raw energy. But here, in a worthless scrimmage, with Jean’s health on the line? It was unwise and incredibly unreasonable.

“I don’t care,” Jean snapped.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Nathaniel whispered, almost in disbelief. It was half an accusation and half a plea, but Jean didn’t bother protesting.

Some seemed to visibly relax when they saw Jean return to his side of the court without any physical response from Nathaniel, and if anything, Nathaniel was the first to be surprised. He wasn’t naturally calm, and he certainly didn’t have the patience or the humility to let people order him around with provocation. But it was Jean, and there lied the very core of the problem. It was Jean, and Jean wasn’t Riko, and he wasn’t Kevin. Jean was _something_. His half, his partner, whatever that meant and he didn’t believe in.

When the game resumed and Riko picked the ball up from the opposite team, he went straight for the goal. Nathaniel vibrated with anxiety as he recognized Riko’s belligerent stance, and he only had the time to share a knowing glance with Jean before checking Riko so hard the ball popped out of his net. His dealer picked the ball up and passed it to a striker further up the court.

He didn’t even care when the opponent’s goal lit up red. He much less cared when his own team clacked racquets and looked at him, checking to see if it was okay to congratulate him, too. They rarely did because they rarely dared. Nobody ever touched Nathaniel without his consent, anyway—except for Riko.

And Riko, oh, Riko—he was practically running towards Jean, and Nathaniel couldn’t help looking away when Jean’s body was pinned so hard to the wall he heard bones crack.

They didn’t say anything to each other, but this time Nathaniel stuck around while Jean cleaned the court. After having been left behind many times and forced to find his way back to their dorm room, Jean noticed the change instantly. But he knew better than to comment, and Nathaniel knew better than to apologize.

* * *

It was late at night when Jean lost himself staring at the pitch black ceiling. There was nothing to admire from their respective beds, nothing but the plain paint and the sensation of being trapped—but somehow, Jean could look at it like it was a night sky. Without any colors or any stars, that’s for sure; much like a rainy day without any sun or any cloud. Grey all around, gloomy and sad—Nathaniel’s favorite weather, for some unknown reason.

“If I had known,” Jean started but never finished. His voice was all bitterness all deep sorrow.

“Did your parents tell you?” _That they were going to sell you_ , he thought, but didn’t say.

“Did yours?” Jean snapped back in a second.

“Fair enough,” Nathaniel nodded with amusement. “But, no. they didn’t.” He didn’t mind admitting that—it wasn’t like his worthless existence and his presence at Evermore was a secret. Maybe the Ravens didn’t know as much as Kevin did, but it was all the same. No family could give away their kid to be raised only to become a champion. No mother would abandon her child to the hands of a stranger solely on the ground that he had potential.

Jean probably didn’t expect that bit of honesty from him; he could tell by the way Jean fell into a puzzled silence. Probably was he realizing that they weren’t as different as they first thought, and though that was a terribly dangerous path to take, Nathaniel let him. He wasn’t going to lie just to make sure Jean would keep his distance. And if Jean believed he could find comfort in their shared pathetic backstory, then he would prove him wrong and that would be it.

“How were they?” Jean finally asked, and it was an eternity since he’d last spoken. Nathaniel could figure the blank had been sheer hesitation. Somehow, Nathaniel didn’t look like someone you could ask personal questions without expecting consequences. And, somehow, Nathaniel didn’t look like someone who would bother answering—yet, _somehow_ , he did.

“My parents?” From there he could tell Jean was nodding from the faint rustle of the sheets. He took his time to gather his thoughts, wondering what would be the accurate way to depict his family, if family ever was the right word for that. Nathaniel didn’t believe in family, anyway. “Different than most I suppose.”

That was a vague yet incredibly description, and he felt like he’d given away too much. It didn’t keep him from going on, too caught up in the memories to really care. Jean wouldn’t share these things with anyone and he didn’t think this conversation was really serious.

“My mother was blunt and strict. Strong I’m sure. She was direct and harsh and never bothered being soft to spare someone’s feelings. But she was wise, somehow.” Nathaniel didn’t tell Jean his mother’s wisdom must have stopped with his father. He couldn’t really understand why they’d ended up together, much less why she’d stayed. He’d often drawn the hypothesis of a forced marriage, of shared interests from both the Wesninski and the Hatford families, operating in the same criminal fields but in different countries—but it didn’t add up right. It didn’t mean he could picture his parents being in love, either. Everything was off.

“And your father?” Jean asked, though carefully, with a pause that was big enough for Nathaniel to prepare for it. But silence stretched out, a little bit at first, then so much he wondered if Nathaniel had heard him. “What was he like?” he tried again.

He didn’t really indulge himself and went straight to the point. “Me.”

Perhaps someone who didn’t share Nathaniel’s personal space on a daily basis without interruption wouldn’t have been able to tell the horror in this simple, short, innocent word. And perhaps Jean Moreau wasn’t the best positioned to fully understand what was behind Nathaniel’s family name and Nathaniel’s scars and Nathaniel’s knee-jerk violence. But he was smart enough to know this simple, short and innocent word meant everything.

“Okay,” Jean simply said. It could have been taken as a dismissal or sheer disinterest, but Nathaniel knew better. Jean didn’t bother talking to anyone—if he talked to him, then it meant he cared for some unfathomable reason. It didn’t exactly mean Jean cared for him, it simply meant he was curious enough to want answers to his questions. And he’d gotten. No—Jean was _thanking_ him—for opening up, for trusting him, for letting Jean a little bit closer than he should get.

Nathaniel wasn’t interested in asking questions, not when the conversation had fallen flat, but he didn’t want it to end right now, either. It was absurd: they had all the time in the world and countless nights to repeat this pathetic scheme of odd bonding, but patience had never been something Nathaniel was particularly good at.

He searched for a while, then wondered if Jean had fallen asleep. Somehow he knew he hadn’t, though he couldn’t explain where the certainty came from. When it was clear he didn’t know what to talk about, he went for the only thing he still had in mind. It was a blurry, unconcerned memory, but it was there. “Did he hurt you?”

There was a slight pause during which Jean probably tried to figure out who he was talking about. When he understood it was Riko, he breathed deeply, as though unsure. “Yeah,” he whispered as he breathed out. He could have clarified or denied out of pride, but it wasn’t worth it. Nathaniel didn’t care whatever emotional trauma Riko caused him; he cared in what Jean’s reply hid.

Riko was good at being violent, much like Nathaniel was. But they used violence differently and for different reasons, which made all the difference between them. That Jean was so shaken by Riko’s treatment underlined the possibility that Jean had never been beaten up before.

Now that he thought about it, he didn’t remember seeing any major scar on Jean’s body—except perhaps the unimportant ones a careless child could easily accumulate growing up. An adventurous teenager, a reckless lover, a rebellious son. Maybe he’d fallen from a bike, or got too drunk, or jumped from a balcony. Nathaniel didn’t know.

Strange enough was the feeling of secondhand sorrow he felt, barely but felt still, at the idea that Jean’s body wouldn’t remain a blank canvas for too long.

He thought about that, not really sure what it meant. It was compassion and understanding, it was half-worry and half-truth. Nathaniel was just stating the facts, but he’d never really cared. Not for himself, and certainly not for Kevin, who dodged the blows by the unexplainable luck of being born a Day instead of a Wesninski.

“You trouble me greatly,” Nathaniel let out in frustration.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”


	3. We laugh and it pits the world against us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More violence, and Nathaniel growing more protective as times goes by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, they kill me.  
> Useless info: I kinda headcanon Jean as Matthew Bell and [this guy](https://www.pinterest.fr/pin/494833077793047403/) as Neil (add the auburn hair with your imagination, yes). also I made [a board for this fic](https://www.pinterest.fr/oxymorts/let-me-tell-you-a-story-about-war-story/)
> 
> French:  
> 1\. "I don't understand."  
> 2\. "How can you be so pleased by…" (…) "By that."  
> 3\. "Could you do so much as understand?" he asked, and Jean tried to not take offense in the way he'd sait that. "You?"  
> 4\. "Maybe not," he admitted. "You find undeniable comfort in a number that you haven't even chosen yourself. It's not a question of identity, and it's certainly not a question of freedom."  
> 5\. "So what," (…) "Maybe I didn't choose it, but I deserved it."  
> 6\. "Deserved?" (…) "It's a leash. Riko's making sure you'll never be as good as Kevin and him, and never worse than me. It's a way to lend credibility to his Perfect Court delirium and nothing else."  
> 7\. "You didn't look that outraged when it was your turn."  
> 8\. "I didn't have a choice."  
> 9\. "Some people need a reason to get up in the morning. For most of them it's natural and unquestionable. The rest has to find enough of a reason, no matter what it takes."  
> 10\. "Why?"  
> 11\. "Fuck."  
> 12\. "We don't need to obey him."  
> 13\. "No, I'm serious. If we obey then nothing keeps him from pulling on our leash even more."  
> 14\. "Asshole."

Nathaniel woke up to the confusing sound of his heartbeat. He stilled underneath the sheets, staring at the void as he tried to focus, a bit more mesmerized by the steady rhythm of it than he should have been. It was a stupid thing to do—he knew it—but he did it nonetheless, tearing every wall to the ground until nothing would be left but his pulse. He didn’t need to dig a finger under the corner of his jaw or circle his wrist. It was there, much louder than he supposed it usually was, and he listened closely, alert and puzzled, to the proof he was alive. To the proof he was _there_.

It was hard enough to accept the power such a mundane thing had on him, harder even to ignore the way Jean’s gaze lingered when he realized something was up. Nathaniel was always the first to get up, but today, he was still lying on his sides, brows furrowed as he focused, breathing deep and calculated like he was tiptoeing his way around a panic attack.

Jean didn’t ask, and perhaps was it worse. He simply sat on the edge of his bed and watched whatever Nathaniel was trying to do, as curious as a bit mocking. When Nathaniel sat upright in his turn, he dug an unforgiving middle finger in his throat and waited. No matter how long he waited, though, the rhythm was still there—familiar and reassuring, fascinating a man who had never really paid attention to heartbeats.

In Baltimore, it was needless to say his blood had often rushed to his ears. In shame, anger or anxiety, all three melted together by habit most of the time—but he hadn’t taken a minute to listen to it. To wait until it would steady and calm down. To check if it was still there, keeping him alive. Life and death was a blurry line he’d often had the impression of crossing, yet never completely; and being alive was a concept almost too foreign. To people like Jean—people who’d never had a real reason to question it—it would as crazy as terrifying, to hold so little consideration for his own existence that he didn’t care if he lived or died. In another life, he would have been willing to prove a point; now, however, he could only stare blankly at the floor as blood pumped in his ears. He almost regretted waking up with nightmares. The truth, no matter how flat and boring, was way harsher than the ghost of his father.

If Jean and Nathaniel were friends, he would have asked if Nathaniel was okay. And if Jean and Nathaniel were friends, Nathaniel would have told him _yes_. But they weren’t—so they got up in silence and got over it.

It’d been months since Nathaniel had last let his guard down, months since he’d given Jean a piece of himself, and months since he’d eventually promised himself to not let Jean any closer. Wherever he was, it was already too much, and he couldn’t bear the thought of it.

They’d silently agreed to set up a bare, impersonal routine wherein they would cautiously ignore each other. Personal topics were never brought up anymore, and Jean was clever enough to bury deep down whatever truths Nathaniel had accepted to give him here and there. The fractured, tiny pieces of Nathaniel’s intricate existence had no meaning when he couldn’t use them, and Jean knew better than to cherish them anyway. Morning went like that—they’d get up and they’d change and they’d start their day with the far-off determination of someone who knows he doesn’t have a choice.

Pretending each other didn’t exist didn’t mean they couldn’t linger. Often and more than not, Nathaniel caught himself staring after Jean in various, pointless situations—eyes distracted by the twitching corner of a mouth, by the slight worried knot of dark brows, by the sweaty small of a bare back. And when he caught Jean staring in his turn, he didn’t say a word.

It was easier that way—pushing their realities away so that nothing could get to them. Somehow Riko had noticed the strategy, and though angry at first, determined to make them snap by punishing one instead of the other, he’d eventually taken the hint. Both were now equally punished and there was no changing it. Nathaniel didn’t mind—he’d always known this was how things would go when he’d get paired up, and Nathaniel knew better than to be compassionate. It didn’t felt pleasant to watch as Jean got hit in his fault, but he made up for the odd, fleeting sense of guilt by reminding himself of how many times he would get hit because of Jean in return. It wasn’t soothing, and it wasn’t healthy, but it was all he had.

Today, somehow, Nathaniel lingered a little too long. The silent agreement they had made after their first few days or not staring at each other’s bodies was a clean and neat boundary they were willing to respect, but it was hard to shy away from it when Jean’s track marks were exposed, ugly and terrible, monsters of a past he wasn’t sure Jean had really slayed.

All Ravens around were slowly getting back into clean clothes, drying themselves after the communal showers—and most were already out, leaving the locker room without a word for their teammates—but they were still there, sitting a comfortable few feet from each other on the same bench. Kevin was used to ignoring them as they’d often be the last to leave, due to Jean’s performance or Nathaniel’s temper, both punished by Riko and his uncle and, more often than not, the responsibility of cleaning court and changing rooms. It didn’t mean much, most of the time: only picking up dirty clothes and bringing them to the laundry room, gathering the gear and locking it up, making sure nothing was left behind. But it was enough that nobody questioned them when they purposefully lingered, taking short breaks between two socks or distractingly staring at the floor.

Their excuse, with was truly justified, was that they couldn’t leave without the other, and preferred each other’s presence much more than they did the other Ravens’.

When eventually only a few Ravens were still changing, far enough that they didn’t mind, Jean locked eyes with him and sighed.

“Problem?” Nathaniel asked, more on the defensive than he should have been for so little—but it was hard to control it when Jean was looking at him hard and ruthless.

“Oh, I thought I should be the one to ask you that.” His tone was sarcastic but it was light, in clear contradiction with the way his entire body was tense and braced for the violence. He wondered for a short second if it was because Jean was afraid of him, but didn’t bother asking.

“Doesn’t matter,” Nathaniel dismissed without looking back. Feeling Jean’s heavy gaze on him was more than enough, and he didn’t like whatever shone in his pupils. He didn’t want to talk about Jean’s track marks, and he certainly didn’t want to admit he’d been staring.

It was as pointless as it was pathetic, however: Jean had picked up on it in a matter of seconds, and even then, Nathaniel had shamelessly kept staring.

“Aren’t you even a little curious?” he asked, and a passing-by Raven distractedly looked their way. Jean barely even acknowledged the teammate, eyes focused on Nathaniel, determined to make him snap.

Snap wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing with Nathaniel, and perhaps only Jean did know about that. He’d seen Nathaniel’s violent side, but he’d also seen the softer, even more intricate side he wasn’t interested in showing people. He knew full well the only reason he’d been privileged enough to catch a glimpse of it was because they couldn’t get around each other, but it still bothered him night and day. Now that they neatly avoided each other, making Nathaniel snap would be even more of a pride than it would have normally been, and at this point, Jean was willing to accept anything—his violence, his white anger, his tight grip and fierce knuckles if it meant Nathaniel wasn’t clinically shutting down.

“Should I?” Nathaniel growled, and the vague amusement in his tone was nothing but aggressiveness.

Jean had seen too much for it to be enough of a warning. Perhaps did it make him an idiot, but it made him pig-headed for sure. “I don’t know,” Jean honestly shrugged, but he wasn’t going to let the conversation stop there. Talking about his track marks wasn’t something he’d ever think soothing, much less useful if he ever could avoid it, but then again, Jean was willing to do anything to force Nathaniel out of his safe silence. “You tell me.”

Though they had no idea what they were talking about, and had only caught a slight, general insight of their complicated relationship, but Nathaniel could still tell the familiar way bodies stiffened in his field of view. It didn’t matter; he had eyes for only Jean, even if he neatly avoided looking back.

“I don’t have anything to tell you.” It was flat and unconcerned—the more Nathaniel had ever been himself since day one.

“Nathaniel,” Jean tried, but didn’t get far.

Nathaniel let his eyes wander to the side, catching another glimpse of Jean’s skin where the track marks were painfully obvious. He stared three, four, five seconds—then dared to look up at Jean. He held his gaze, as if daring him to say a word, but Nathaniel only got up and slammed his locker shut.

He felt a Raven jump by the violence of the sound, but didn’t linger for all that—not even for Jean, who was still tying his shoes. No need to; Jean was already after him, out of necessity more than anything else.

It felt hollow after that, standing next to Jean like nothing had _ever_ happened, but they were used to it.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Nathaniel’s birthday came, and Jean didn’t notice it was until a Raven boy waited for him on the court and gently patted his shoulder. It was one of the youngest, Jean had noticed, and one of the softest—the closest thing to a friend he could find. The way he dared to touch Nathaniel’s shoulder was as much stupid as it was suicidal, and Jean couldn’t help but frown at the way his finger lingered inadvertently on Nathaniel’s jersey.

“Happy birthday,” the boy shrugged with a smile that was too shy to be mocking.

Nathaniel only nodded, and met the gaze of whoever questioned it. He didn’t see the importance in birthdays, he never had—though it probably came from his emotion-deprived upbringing. Always straight to the point and clinical, enough for a child to grow up too fast.

Jean didn’t notice he was still staring until Nathaniel stared back. There was a wordless dare in his eyes, but Jean didn’t repeat the boy’s words, neither did he step closer. He carefully ignored the information, even if it felt terribly rude. In France, people wished each other’s birthdays out of sheer politeness, even when nobody really cared. With Nathaniel, it was different, and Jean held the words on the edge of his lips: if he was going to wish Nathaniel a happy birthday, then he’d wait until Nathaniel would be ready to hear it. It was pointless otherwise.

Later that day, Jean went through the same thing Nathaniel had for him; a thoroughly cleaned room, the same tattoo artist, the same intimidating stuff scattered around on protected surface. Nathaniel sat still in his chair, unbothered by the wait, and when the needle finally went through the skin, Jean’s eyes shifted from the artist’s hand to Nathaniel’s mouth.

It was tense, but not anxious—and he realized it was satisfied.

He didn’t wait for the tattoo to be finished, recalling the cleaning and protecting steps that would follow, but he did switch to French to grant them a little bit of privacy. He wasn’t really sure why—but these days, Nathaniel was so quiet it felt like a necessary precaution.

“Je comprends pas.1”

Nathaniel didn’t answer, but he did look up; unmoving still, and eyes so fierce they pierced right through Jean. He leaned against the wall and let himself appear puzzled, thinking about all the reasons Nathaniel could possibly have to be content.

He took Nathaniel’s gaze as a green light to keep going. “Comment tu peux être aussi content pour…” he paused, searching for the right words, before nervously gesturing at Nathaniel’s cheekbone. “Pour _ça._ 2”

It took a moment before he replied, and Jean even doubted he would, but the words were clean and assured, heavy with his usual arrogance. Somehow, though, it was more honest than it was provocative.

“Est-ce que tu pourrais ne serait-ce que comprendre ?” he asked, and Jean tried to not take offense in the way he’d said that. “ _Toi_ ? 3”

The word stung more than it should, or perhaps was it Nathaniel’s unwavering, unblinking eyes. Though Jean looked away, he didn’t give up for all that.

“Peut-être pas,” he admitted. “Tu trouves un réconfort indéniable dans un numéro que tu n’as même pas choisi toi-même. C’est pas une question d’identité, et c’est certainement pas une question de liberté.4”

“So what,” he shrugged, faintly enough that it didn’t bother the artist. “Peut-être que je l’ai pas choisi, mais je l’ai mérité.5”

“Mérité ?” Jean repeated, more indignant than confused. “C’est une laisse. Riko s’assure que tu ne seras jamais meilleur que Kevin et lui, et jamais pire que moi. C’est une façon de crédibiliser son délire de _perfect court_ et rien d’autre. 6”

He could tell how anger was slowly seeping through Nathaniel’s collected expression, but he was in too deep. Nathaniel took the bite right away. “Tu n’avais pas l’air si indigné quand c’était ton tour.7”

Jean blanched a little bit, but he held on. “J’avais pas le choix.8”

Nathaniel shrugged again. It was uninteresting and irrelevant.

“Don’t make the wrong assumption of thinking everyone is like you. I am so different from you that you can’t even start to imagine.”

“There,” the artist said over the buzzing sound of the machine, and wiped Nathaniel’s cheekbone clean. It was red and swollen, and it burned a little, but Nathaniel couldn’t ignore the dizzying satisfaction of being number three. Now he couldn’t be denied—now he was _someone_.

While the artist collected his things a little bit, Nathaniel took the short break to snap Jean back to reality. “Certains ont besoin de quelque chose pour se lever le matin. Pour la plupart c’est naturel et évident. Les autres doivent se trouver une raison suffisante, coûte que coûte.9”

“Pourquoi ?10” Jean barely mumbled.

The smile Nathaniel offered then was all teeth and danger, and it reminded Jean of the first encounters he’d had with him. It was going backwards and regressing word after word, but there was no helping it.

At least, Jean took the hint and stopped arguing for now.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you,” Jean growled as he absentmindedly pulled on his jersey. The words came out with obvious hesitation, but it was enough looking at him to know that.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Nathaniel simply bothered as he walked to half court, his racquet heavy and tall against his shoulder. It was one of the shortest, but when he hold it upright, it was a weapon nobody could deny. “You’re holding us back from where we need to be at this point. If you don’t master all the drills by the time you join the Ravens, everyone’s going to have a hard time.”

“I didn’t know you were concerned about everyone having a hard time,” Jean pointed out.

“I don’t,” Nathaniel answered—and when he looked at Jean, his gaze was blank and distant. “I’m being selfish here. I don’t need Riko on my back more than he already is, and watching you fail is fairly unpleasant.”

Half the reason for it was that it involved Jean being punished for his mediocrity, and Nathaniel would by now look away from the sight until it’d be his turn. That, however, he didn’t tell Jean. Not that it would help them anyway. It was only avoidance and weakness and pity, and he liked none of it.

“Am I that bad?” Jean asked, and for once he recognized the shakiness of self-consciousness in it.

“No. You have potential. And on the court, you’re quick and aggressive.”

“But,” Jean started.

“But you lack the accuracy of a Raven. Precision, efficiency and spontaneity. You must be able to send the wall back up the court without even glancing at it. And by doing so, you must exactly where and how the ball is going to be received.”

He kept walking until he reached fourth, and Jean simply watched.

Then Nathaniel let a ball fall to the ground and picked it up instantly with his net. “Our job isn’t solely to keep strikers away from our goal. Our job,” he said, and passed the ball to the other side of the court, where Jean’s racquet was all but expecting it, “is to make our own strikers’ life as easy as can be. We’re the unmovable and fierce wall protecting the goal, and we’re the shadows our teammates shouldn’t have to glance back at. Not to ask, not to check.”

Jean didn’t really understand everything, but after spending months with the Ravens, he could tell it was important—one of these long-term goals he’d master eventually. It was as satisfying to think about it as it was disheartening. He nodded understanding anyways, no eager to tickle Nathaniel’s impatience.

“Why did you change your mind?” Jean asked when he sent the ball back as hard as he could.

“I told you. You’re slowing us down,” Nathaniel said as he received it. He sent it flying on the far-off wall, and Jean was a second too late at calculating the angle.

“Putain,11” Jean let out in frustration when the ball bounced back right in his racquet.

“Yup,” Nathaniel smiled. It was odd to witness it; an honest piece of himself he wasn’t even aware of giving away. “Feels good, doesn’t it? If you master all of these drills, the ball will go right where you want it to go. Your teammates won’t even have to twitch a finger.”

Jean bounced the ball on the ground a few times to get the hang of his racquet, then sent it in Nathaniel’s direction.

“Don’t let anyone convince you that precision isn’t the key. Sloppy games are doomed to end in defeats. Edgar Allan doesn’t do sloppy.”

Jean wasn’t sure, but it sounded more like an advice than a warning. It was hard to tell with Nathaniel’s teeth showing knowingly, eyes glinting with a passion he only reserved for exy.

 

* * *

 

It couldn’t be helped. After months of forcefully befriending each other, they had to absorb each other’s bad habits against their will, repeating words unconsciously, mimicking nervous gestures and growing more codependent than they would have liked. Beyond the scary fact that being left alone by the other more than an hour or two, there was the inevitable one that Nathaniel’s French had greatly improved, and it wasn’t all his teacher’s merit.

Jean was French. He was French through flesh and skin, and deep to the bone. It was French he’d mumble when accidentally bumping into a table, French that he’d growl in frustrated whispers when Riko would go back to his place on the court. It was French in his nightmares, and French when he woke up, blurry and unsure. A mother tongue was hard to repress; even harder to replace, and no matter how fluent Jean was, his accent showed some times more than others, some days barely, but always quite _there_.

They’d had countless occasions of speaking French, be it for privacy or practicality. Riko’s presence triggered both the necessity and the danger of talking French: there was little other than English and Japanese that Riko was able to discern, and it was childish to hope for less than violence if he ever was confronted with incomprehension. It was bound to happen, however—and if Riko’s harsh warnings at Jean’s French slipping up on practice wasn’t enough, Jean and Nathaniel’s secret language was going to be the last mistake they’d ever do in his presence.

It was barely a thing: Jean getting hit, but in the way he’d always do. Nathaniel looked away and said nothing, though he felt his pulse racing for a second—and Jean went back to his place in silence. The game resumed, and none of them talked French again.

But Riko hadn’t forgotten about Nathaniel, and the trick had earned him more blows and insults than he’d usually be worth. It was enough for Nathaniel to resent Jean, even if it was unfair; and enough for him to settle in a silence treatment in the locker room, after practice. Jean noticed it right away, used to Nathaniel’s nonchalance but even more sensible to Nathaniel’s mood swings. It’s only when Riko and Kevin left the changing room that Jean said:

“On n’a pas besoin de lui obéir.12”

Nathaniel snorted with a disbelief that was both offending and unsettling.

“No, I’m serious. Si on lui obéit alors rien ne l’empêche de nous enchaîner davantage.13”

“Oh, yes, great idea, what do you suggest? You got hit, didn’t you?”

“Change of pace,” Jean bitterly mumbled.

“Change of pace or not, you got hit. You must be one fucked up masochist if you’re willing to risk that twice.”

“He can’t force me to forget about where I come from. French is my first language and he knows it.”

“No, he can’t force you do to that. But he can force us to refrain from talking in this sick-and-secret language he gets nothing from.”

“Is it dangerous?” To Riko, he meant—and though he asked it first in a mocking, unserious tone, it took only a second for Jean to realize.

“Incredibly,” Nathaniel confirmed as he pulled clean socks on.

Nathaniel was right and he knew it. The point of being paired-up was to enhance Raven efficiency and, more gloomily, to keep the players from having any kind of privacy. It meant no relationship, no sexual activity, no personal issues, and no-anything that could threaten the importance of the game. Here they were expected to play, and that was all Moriyama wanted of them at all. It was enough to justify the lack of individuality.

What Jean and Nathaniel had formed inadvertently, and the coincidence of both knowing French though in different quantity, constituted enough of a threat that Riko was probably hating himself for ever pairing them up in the first place. Whatever they said in French he couldn’t control, and there was little Riko loathed more than being powerless.

More than that, it made their alliance unshakeable and dangerous—something, though shaky and fragile, that could potentially be enough to make Riko back off.

Maybe Jean didn’t realize that, or maybe he precisely did. He couldn’t tell through the thick layers of childishness and recklessness Jean wore. It was a weapon and, if used right, could be devastating; much like an exy racquet.

But it wasn’t without consequences, and Nathaniel wasn’t sure he was willing to risk it. He was selfish, yes, but also undeniably uninterested in his own pain—and that, Jean surely didn’t realize for sure. If he had, he would lingered, he would have asked, and Nathaniel would have shut down as he knew how to.

“Stop being stupid,” Nathaniel warned. It was unpleasant to threaten Jean, but Jean wasn’t one to be easily scared. It was a necessity: not for himself, but for Jean. His safety and his health and whatever came after that.

“I’m not,” and Jean’s frown settled the fight.

Nathaniel finished putting his sneakers on and got up. He was far from being as tall as Jean, but his stance was furious enough that it made up for it easily. Jean didn’t back off, though some Ravens absentmindedly did, and their chests bumped into each other’s in defiance.

“I said don’t.”

Jean was incredibly good at making Nathaniel mad, and that was exactly what he wanted. “Make me.”

That was all it took. Nathaniel’s fist went flying, so quick and deep-rooted he didn’t even have to think about it. It landed right in Jean’s mouth, and when Jean held up cautious fingers to his lips, they came out with blood on them.

“Connard,14” Jean growled. Nathaniel didn’t recognize the insult, but Jean talking French was enough of an intentional provocation that Nathaniel hit him again.

This time, Jean retaliated by reflex, and hit Nathaniel’s jaw a bit too visibly. The flesh was red already, and in no time a monstrous bruise would follow. Nathaniel pushed Jean away, and he stumbled before the back of his knees hit the bench. Lacking balance, he fell down, sitting with a violence that left him shaken up.

“Are you done?” Nathaniel smiled, but it wasn’t warm and it wasn’t friendly.

Cornered as he was, Nathaniel’s knees hovering his own to remind him he was in a height advantage, he couldn’t do much but stand down and hope for another occasion to make his point. He couldn’t understand why Nathaniel could so easily question Riko’s power and earn himself countless hits on the court, when afterward, he’d just as easily erase himself off and accept the constraints of Riko’s influence.

It was maddening, and the only one Jean was willing to obey to was Nathaniel. It shook him even more to realize that—and he sat there in silence, confused by himself.

The shrug he gave was absent, but Nathaniel found it sufficient.

 

* * *

 

It didn’t take long for the Ravens to catch up. Though Jean and Nathaniel more often than not sported countless patches of gauze and band-aids, they were always quick to notice whatever would be the latest addition to their mess. Today, there wasn’t much in plain sight, Riko’s vicious blows often aimed at their abdomen, ribs, thighs and shoulders to prevent public scrutiny and irritating questions—but the chaos on their faces, though light and acceptable compared to their usual load, was easy to pick up on.

He felt a few Ravens stare as he passed in the kitchen with his plate, but it was too simple to shut them out. They didn’t matter, and never would—that was all Nathaniel needed to settle in a kind of comfort that nobody could shake. _Nobody_ wasn’t exactly true, however, and when Jean followed to sit in front of him with his own lunch, the Ravens’ shameless stares took another turn.

He waited for Jean’s usual, slightly uncomfortable and irritated _they’re staring_ , but it never came. Jean only looked down at his food, uninterested by it, wincing as he poked his split lip with the tip of his tongue.

“Don’t do that,” Nathaniel sternly let out. It took a few seconds for Jean to understand what he was talking about, and Jean only tensed with useless arrogance.

“If you’re so worried about my health, then stop hitting me.”

Nathaniel stared, unflinching. He knew Jean too well by now, and these words couldn’t get to him. “I’ll stop hitting you when you stop being an idiot. Simple as that.”

“I’m not an idiot,” he sighed with annoyance. “We simply disagree on things. A divergence of opinion doesn’t mean one is better than the other.”

“Then who’s right?” Nathaniel asked, determined to corner Jean where he’d be forced to admit his point made no sense.

“Perhaps none of us,” Jean shrugged. Typical.

Nathaniel crossed his arms on the edge of the table, all but hungry today. He was never one to eat too much, and these days, he could hardly bite on an apple. Appetite had always been a fleeting, capricious thing for Nathaniel, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, no matter how heavy Jean’s gaze was.

He caught the tail-end of a group’s whispers, and instantly looked up. A few Ravens visibly turned away, and he waited for them to look back.

“What are you doing?” Jean asked, eventually, when it was clear Nathaniel was distracted.

“Waiting,” he simply said. “They have a problem and I’m waiting for them to make it clear.”

“What problem?” The frown on Jean’s face was oblivious, but they both knew how quickly the atmosphere could shift whenever they entered a room. The kitchen was where all the Ravens were, and there wasn’t practice to distract them for obvious things. Riko was rarely there, and though there were two kitchens, it was still easy to feel trapped. Most Ravens ate in pairs, trios or quartets, but Nathaniel had never let anyone eat with them. Not that they were really asked for, anyways; Ravens preferred to gossip from afar.

Nathaniel never answered, and it didn’t make it easier on Jean’s nerves. He was always the unstable of the two when it came to public scrutiny, probably because Jean had been long-used to privacy. Intimacy was a foreign concept around here, from the communal showers to the dorms, and the forceful synchrony. Though it showed on the court, it was a heavy price to pay and some couldn’t handle it. Jean would do well until they’d confront others, and then this sense of _us against the world_ would take unexpected proportions. For different reasons than most people, probably—but it still left the two of them together, unable to reach out. Nathaniel didn’t care and Jean didn’t want.

It was a hard thing to admit, and an unspoken thing above all, but Jean preferred Nathaniel’s presence than anyone else’s. It would be strange and unbelievable for all Ravens, if they ever knew—how someone as violent and unsteady as Nathaniel could make Jean feel safe.

Nathaniel and his partner never addressed truths, however, and though silence could speak for them, they usually preferred to pretend otherwise.

Something fell hard on the floor, and before Nathaniel could order Jean not to look, he turned his face in the same direction. His split lip and red cheeks were too easily seen, and someone let a low laughter out. “Amazing,” someone cackled from the back.

Jean’s shoulders tensed with anxiety and he poked his food around with his fork. It was more uncomfortable than it was irritating for Jean, but for Nathaniel, it was a painstaking fight for control over his own self. He didn’t have much time to steady his pulse: soon enough, some fifth-year who’d known Nathaniel for years stopped at their table. They were at the end side, and the Raven put both palms flat on the table between them. Nathaniel didn’t look up, he simply stared at the palms, knife dangerously flying between his fingers. It was a trick he’d learned from Lola, and if it wasn’t enough to impress, it was sure enough to distract.

“Like it rough, huh?” the Raven joked.

Nathaniel didn’t react, but Jean looked up with something fierce and fearless he usually had in his eyes whenever Riko was around. It was defiance, Nathaniel recognized.

It wasn’t yet right, so Nathaniel waited, eyes unblinking as he stared at the Raven’s long fingers.

“Let us know next time you’re going at it in the lockers. It’s only a matter of time before one of us walks in on you both,” he laughed, and Jean blanched.

A few Ravens snorted, visibly enjoying the spectacle, though some were only tense by the boldness; it was a rare and stupid occurrence for Ravens to try and provoke Nathaniel. It never ended well and they knew it. Once in a while, though, one of them was stupid enough to reiterate, out of pride or out of foolishness, once couldn’t tell.

“I fell,” Jean lied through gritted teeth. It was an absurd attempt at making the Raven leave, but Nathaniel thought it entertaining still.

“I think it’s cute, how you’re trying to defend your boyfriend.”

Nathaniel smiled, and it should have been the first visible sign of something terrible. Not only that, but he slowly got up, with enough tardiness that it didn’t invite anyone to jump or back off. He was only getting up, and being reminded of the height difference between him and the fifth-year didn’t get to him in the least. He didn’t need to be tall to be dangerous.

His smile was carved on his face, unmoving and paralyzed like one on a doll.

“What is your point?” he asked, calmly. It didn’t fool Jean, and he visibly swallowed.

“My point is,” the Raven smiled back, and just like that, it was too late. “We all know how out of your mind you actually are. Did he actually volunteer or did you hit him until he begged you?”

Nathaniel had never really put his knife down, but it was hard to tell when the focus was left on their faces. He’d stared long enough at the Raven’s hands to know exactly where they were, and it only took a breath for him to raise his hand and, as he breathed out, nail the knife down the closest palm. It was planted deep enough that he’d have to pull the knife out himself, but not enough that it’d keep him glued to the table—however, his pained cry was so sharp and his shock so terrible that he didn’t dare move his hand. He looked down, dismayed he’d actually done such a thing, and Nathaniel didn’t lose any bit of his smile.

His gaze barely brushed the length of the room before he spoke up. “If anyone else has a point to make, I suggest they make it now.”

Someone rushed to the Raven’s side, and Nathaniel only nodded.

“Then that’s been dealt with.”

He looked at Jean, who got the message, and both of them left the room without glancing back. Nathaniel knew full well he was going to hear about this, probably from Tetsuji, and that he’d be punished for injuring one of his players, but Tetsuji was clever enough to understand that Nathaniel was way more talented than this fifth-year would have ever been. This made the fear of retribution less breathtaking, or perhaps was it the satisfaction of standing up for Jean when Jean didn’t. It’d be a long time since they’d try again, and that was enough of a safety evidence that he was okay letting his guard down.

Needless to say none of them talked about it—not when they left the kitchen, and certainly not when Nathaniel came back with bruised arms and an aching back.

 

* * *

 

Tomorrow’s practice didn’t get any better. It could have been much easier to blame Riko, but the truth was, for once, it wasn’t him. Day after day, they were quick to forget how terrible beings the Ravens could be, both by exposure and by arrogance. Nathaniel could count the few Ravens he did tolerate on one hand, and the rest wasn’t worth any of his attention and he knew it.

It was hard to ignore them, however, when they bumped into Jean full-force. Exy was an aggressive and brutal sport, and Nathaniel knew better than to wince every time Jean got pushed around a little harshly; but there was a thin line between acceptable body-checking and pure violence, and Nathaniel could only tell because he mastered both.

It started with a little bit of nothing—a mark getting too close too quickly, Jean’s face betraying from afar the displeasure of being trash-talked to distract him from the game. It was a famous Raven technic and it shouldn’t have bothered Nathaniel more than that: he, himself, had been the subject of it too many times. He couldn’t tell it’d ended all but badly for most of the times, but it didn’t mean it was worth reacting when it came to others.

Somehow, and he couldn’t quite explain it, Jean and him were both linked. Whether they wanted it or not—especially if they didn’t. He supposed it was a terrible consequence of spending all of their days with each other, though forcefully, and that befriending Jean on such an extreme scale was bound to make him grow sensible. Sensible had never quite been a word to describe Nathaniel Wesninski, however, and when Jean stumbled backwards on the court, violently pushed back, he could only watch in confusion. Why it bothered him, he didn’t know; but it did and he was sure of it.

He gave himself another chance at nonchalance, and he’d have managed to get through practice without batting an eye if it wasn’t for this last serve. Jean’s mark body-checked him so hard Jean was sent sprawling against the floor, helmet snapping on the ground with a loud thump that didn’t bode well. It could have been enough—but he caught the Raven’s foot kicking Jean’s sides as he ran past to catch the ball, and it was all Nathaniel needed.

He dropped his mark and stopped keeping track of the ball. It’d been passed almost instantly, which left the mark free to prey on—and Nathaniel rushed to him in a clean silence that couldn’t be much of a thing. He didn’t growl and he didn’t yell, he didn’t insult and he didn’t call for the mark—he simply went for him, falling like an unexpected storm, and when Nathaniel caught hold of the Raven’s collar with his bulky gloves, he pushed him so hard against the wall that the whole Plexiglas frame trembled.

It was more than enough to attract Riko and Kevin’s attention, and though the way Riko frowned should have been reason to stop and go back to his position, Nathaniel didn’t stop there. A blow went so hard he couldn’t tell where he’d aimed it; and when the Raven’s body folded in two, finally free from his grip, Nathaniel pushed on his shoulders to bring him down to his knee—the kick couldn’t reach his nose with his helmet on, but the grating landed hard against it and in no time, it was already bleeding.

Nathaniel pondered for a second on whether or not he should say something. Somehow, the message was obvious enough that words were unnecessary; but it still itched in the back of his throat, and he couldn’t help it.

“So you think you can go around kicking people like that? You think you can claim violence and get around with it? You really think so?” Nathaniel’s smile was crazy and sharp through the grated lines of his helmet, and Raven made a particular effort to not look away, though he was half-crumpled in pain. He knew Tetsuji was probably watching from afar, but oh, he didn’t care that much. “Guess what, Raven boy. You don’t get to touch him.”

He took a step backwards after pushing him one last time, and the player didn’t have enough balance to remain on his feet: he stumbled blindly, hit the wall and sloppily slid against it at a dangerous angle. Another player rushed to him to check the damage but Nathaniel only shrugged.

“I’m warning you. If you deal with him, then you deal with me.” This time there was no smile, no laughter and no amusement, and perhaps it made it all the creepier.

Jean only stayed there, sprawled on the floor with a tight expression of discomfort, easily explained by the harsh fall and the subtle blows he’d been given since they’d begun practice. Nathaniel barely bothered to turn around and glance at him, but when he did, Jean’s gaze was stuck on him, half confusion, half shock.

Nathaniel didn’t shrug and didn’t try to justify himself. Not to Jean, not to anyone. And when Riko came for him, he took the blows without protest—he’d known what rebellion would cost him, but it was a price he’d been willing to pay to defend Jean’s honor. Not that he really did need Nathaniel for that, but not that Nathaniel was one to stand down either.

Thankfully it was last serve, and all the players scattered around to stretch and collect water bottles. Riko made a point to glance at Nathaniel here and there, which was a clear warning, but no one was as good at ignoring people than Nathaniel was. It was a skill his parents had taught him despite them, and it was of too much use in the Nest. Perhaps he wouldn’t have survived all alone down here if he hadn’t been that good at shutting people out. It was avoidance and peace, it was a chance at survival. No care for no consequence. Only him mattered.

And yet, the truth wasn’t too accurate anymore. He could hardly stomach it—but it didn’t change the facts. It was there, seeping through, growing, and Nathaniel couldn’t stop it. He wondered what would happen if it ever reached the heart or the brain, if he’d snap like a heart-attack or an aneurysm of some twisted sort, or if he’d simply learn to live with it. To tell the truth, he wasn’t sure what scared him most.

For someone who’d only cared for himself and then even barely, letting someone in—be it in patches or for good—was like teaching a guard dog to kill his master. It was dangerous, on the border of suicide, and it was bound to backfire. Then he could only blame himself—and Jean, perhaps.

But Jean had never done too much, other than breathe and live and try. He was hard at times, prying and curious, hot-headed and immature, but he had a certain softness in him that only added to his loneliness and fragility, a softness Nathaniel couldn’t believe had gotten to him. It was impossible.

It was terrible enough that Nathaniel had stood for Jean—even more so that he’d stayed to help Jean clean the court. Jean was only getting better even with a shaky health that Riko’s cruelty only faltered, and it was only a matter of time before someone else would be bad enough to inherit after-practice chores in his stead—but Nathaniel still stayed. Not only did he stay, like all the other times he had, but he helped.

At first, Jean didn’t notice, too caught up in gathering Exy balls with the net of his racquet to register that Nathaniel had left his usual waiting spot against the wall. And when he finally realized Nathaniel was moving his racquet around, too, it didn’t take long for him to understand he was simply picking balls up with his net and aiming nonchalantly at the wide bucket around half-court. Jean watched as Nathaniel’s balls landed right, and he could have lingered on Nathaniel’s scary aim and accuracy if he wasn’t already lingering on the obvious.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Don’t,” Nathaniel warned as he kept picking balls up.

But Jean was never too good at obeying, anyway, and perhaps was it the reason why they complimented each other so well. “You don’t have to do this,” he reminded.

It was pointless to do so: Nathaniel Wesninski would never do something he didn’t want to simply because he felt forced to. Without Riko or Tetsuji’s threats of violence, and even then barely, there was little he wasn’t willing to contradict. Watching Jean tire himself out by putting the gear away was reward enough—if he was helping him, it wasn’t worth assuming it was by some twisted sense of politeness Nathaniel didn’t have.

“I don’t,” he agreed flatly, and another ball landed in the bucket. Jean had stopped moving, too mesmerized by the effortless precision and even more so by Nathaniel’s unexpected help. He couldn’t recall a time in months when Nathaniel had lifted more than a finger. It’d taken days for Nathaniel to even _wait_ for him—helping was unfathomable.

“Thanks,” he whispered, but the court was empty and the word echoed easily off the walls. Nathaniel didn’t look up even then. They both knew he was thanking him for more than collecting the balls, and this knowledge was left heavy in-between them.

“Don’t mention it,” Nathaniel kept going. Another ball landed, a little more brutally, and the bucket almost shook.

“Please,” Jean sighed, still paralyzed on his far-off side of the court. “Talk to me.”

“No,” Nathaniel simply replied.

Jean didn’t try again after that.

He didn’t really have to. By the time they were done cleaning the court from balls, buckets and racquets, a familiar silhouette was standing near the Home benches. Nathaniel could have recognized it anywhere, and he froze so suddenly it knocked the breath out of him.

The woman standing there had probably noticed, because she walked to the court door with a smile that could have split her cheeks further. Nathaniel imagined how pleasurable it could be to cut her cheeks with a knife, slitting an endless hiatus in the middle of her face, but it didn’t take the edge of his uneasiness away.

“Why are you here?” he asked from afar, and Lola stood still in the doorframe as though to lock them in. They were trapped.

Jean straightened, aware he wasn’t talking to him, and his eyes stopped with obvious mistrust on the figure standing there. He would have gladly joined in to show his discontentment, but Nathaniel’s careful stance was too obvious, and he reasonably took the hint.

“That’s no way to say hello, Junior,” Lola laughed coldly.

“You and I both know you aren’t well-acquainted with manners,” Nathaniel scoffed without anger. It was only familiarity and the heavy caution of experience.

“Ouch, that stung.” Lola’s smile was an unwavering thing, so cold and still it made Jean shiver. “Your father thought it was time for a check-up.”

“I didn’t know he was interested in me,” Nathaniel said as dryly as he could. It would have disheartened anyone to get any closer, but Lola wasn’t Riko and she wasn’t the Ravens. She knew better. Jean wondered if Nathaniel’s cold face was an act, or if he really held his ground. Either way, it didn’t scare the woman away, and Jean could only watch from the side, pulse racing in his ears with secondhand anxiety. He had no idea who she was, but if she was enough to shake Nathaniel up like that, she had to be someone important.

“Naïve still, I see,” she commented. “He’s interested in his _investment_. I told countless him how disappointing you’d always be, but he wouldn’t listen. See, Junior, your father does think you are infinitely worthless—but he appears to trust your potential.” Nathaniel frowned, hardly believing his father could ever think he was good at anything. Then again, if he hadn’t been sure, he probably wouldn’t have been given to the Moriyamas. A kid without potential can’t be taught no matter how harsh and intensive the training.

Nathaniel felt plenty of sharp-edged words itching his tongue, but he let none of them out. He was more interested in watching Lola, in making sure she wouldn’t get any closer. To him—and even more, to Jean: if he knew what Lola was capable of, Jean couldn’t even start to imagine in his wildest dreams. He stood there, alert and careful, ready to jump in between them if needed. Jean’d caught up on it after months of slowly yet surely cornering Nathaniel’s stances, and he felt quietly grateful that Jean understood he should lay low.

“Well,” Lola laughed. “Not very welcoming, are you? It’s okay, I’ll get over it.”

“What do you want?” Nathaniel asked.

“From you?” she said, brows furrowed like she couldn’t understand. “Nothing, sweetheart.” Nathaniel’s heart raced at this very moment, knowing too well what was about to happen. And it did: Lola slowly shifted her gaze from him to Jean, and when she spoke again, her smile was all teeth and danger. “I already spoke to the right people. Nathan wouldn’t have been glad to suffer the repercussions of your failure.”

“Then you have nothing left to do here,” Nathaniel slowly let out. “Leave.”

Lola’s eyes didn’t leave Jean for a second. He made a point to return the gaze, but it didn’t ease any of Nathaniel’s anger. That Lola was here for him, he could take it. That she discovered Jean’s existence and found it distracting enough, it was as terrible as it sounded.

“Who’s your friend, Junior?” she asked like he knew she would. “Don’t be rude like that, have you already forgotten all about what your father taught you? He’d be ashamed to learn how badly your manners have turned. Very ashamed,” she added, and her smile split further if that was even possible.

“He’s no one,” Nathaniel shrugged, but his tense shoulders gave away the warning.

She made a step forward and that was all it took—Nathaniel lunged between the two, solid barrier protecting Jean from Lola’s firm cruelty.

“No one,” he repeated as he stressed every syllable, and he glanced at Jean to make sure he’d take the hint. Even though Lola had the means to get her information elsewhere and could probably still piece the mystery together with Jean’s jersey and a little bit of curiosity, he didn’t want her to get her hands on Jean’s name.

Lola made an exaggerated sigh, and Nathaniel visibly relaxed. Enough that Jean could breathe again—but not enough for Nathaniel to tear his gaze away from Jean’s.

“Now Junior, you know how to pick them.” She whistled, and the sound of it rang in their ears, deafening and dangerous. “He’s a looker.”

Nathaniel didn’t deny or confirm it, and simply settled for the best answer he could find. “Go away.”

“Sharing has never been your strongest point, has it?” Lola teased, closer to his ear than he would have liked, and he couldn’t ignore the way Lola was getting dangerously close. It didn’t take more for Nathaniel to explode, thoughts going wild, imagining terrible scenarii where Lola had her hands on him. Knifes and weapons would never do as much harm as herself; the sharp edge of her words, the hollow of her voice devoid of any distant sorts of warmth and compassion.

He went for Lola and that’s exactly what she’d wanted. Nathaniel was fast enough to punch her mouth the same way he’d punched Jean, but she retaliated efficiently. How easy it was to forget that Lola had been the one to teach him how to fight. Fortunately, she was kind enough not to use her knives, and Nathaniel could only recognize the faint gratefulness when he rubbed his wrist with angry fingers. She’d twisted it in a dangerous angle, forcing a cry out of him—to which Jean had flinched, halfway ready to pull him out of her grip.

“Can’t beat the master,” Lola reminded. She lifted a hand to hit him, but he caught her wrist on the move. “But your reflexes have improved, how nice. Do you practice on him?” she smiled, and her chin vaguely pointed at Jean behind his shoulder.

“Leave him out of this. This isn’t his business.”

“Fierce and possessive,” she sighed, faking disappointment. “I never took you for a killjoy, Junior.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he growled, low and steady.

Her wrist was still caged up in the air between them, but with her free hand, she gently stroked Nathaniel’s other cheek. It could have easily been mistaken for a demonstration of affection if Nathaniel didn’t know better; perhaps did the way her nails scratched lightly as she pulled her hand back betray the underlying violence of the caress. Lola was like that—rough and terrible, but destructive even with faked softness. Maybe her gentleness was even more brutal.

He let her do so because it’d at least distract her from Jean, who still stood there, knees weak and cheeks red. His stance was obviously fight-or-flight, but he couldn’t leave Nathaniel alone in that, he refused. He knew full well he’d get Nathaniel’s anger afterwards for not being smart enough to run away when he could, at the first signs of disapproval given away by Nathaniel’s tense body. But he didn’t care, not really; Nathaniel had stood for him, so he’d stay still and make sure nothing would happen. It didn’t matter that Jean wasn’t one to win fights or predict violence—his presence meant more than it could visibly say, and Nathaniel felt it. Maybe Jean’s presence was the only thing keeping Nathaniel _there_ , alert and in control.

“I know, I know,” she laughed softly. “You’re just like your father, aren’t you? From the boldness to the temper,” she enumerated as she tilted her head to the side, and he knew it was coming: “to the looks. How charming,” she nodded. “Just my type. But you know that, right?”

Nathaniel would have lost control if he hadn’t felt Jean’s body tense in the background. Lola had probably missed it, foreign to Jean’s stance and attitude, but Nathaniel wasn’t fooled. There was clearly defense in Jean’s shoulders, and it kept him grounded. A reassurance, or a subtle sense of support, probably.

His grip on her wrist tightened second after second, and he watched closely as pain seeped through her smile; slight discomfort at first, and then soon enough, the sharp tang of pain. It was the only thing they had in common, the only thing they’d ever shared and understood.

Lola didn’t look threatened—she looked pleased. “I’m proud,” she cackled. “You might actually be interesting enough after all that time. I raised you well,” she concluded as she shook her wrist: not to get out of his grip, but to congratulate him. It looked honest enough that it made him shiver. “Might as well invite you to a knife duel one of these days.”

Nathaniel swallowed dry. Lola and her knives had taught him everything, but he wasn’t sure he could ever survive her in a fight. She was fierce and lacked all the human characteristics that could usually put a fight to an end. Maybe she cared so little for her adversaries and victory itself that she was bound to best them. Her patience and unwavering love for inflicted-pain only made her more terrifying.

“Maybe,” he agreed despite himself. There was nothing to say but this, and Lola would never be allowed to hurt Nathaniel as long as he belonged to the Moriyamas anyway. It was a faint reassurance, but it was enough.

He held onto the vague thought of practicing knife fights again, _just in case_ , but Lola nodded and they both let go of each other.

“I’ll admit I’m a little lost,” she made a fake sigh as she looked around the stands. “Walk me to the exit, will you?” It wasn’t a question and he knew it. He figured she had things to tell him out of Jean’s earshot, and settled on following her. His reassurance still stood: she couldn’t do anything to him when his leash was tight in Tetsuji’s hand.

He glanced at Jean for the first time in a while, and though he didn’t nod at him, it was almost as if. Jean frowned, disapproving all the way, but Nathaniel’s gaze held on fierce, blank and cold, and Jean eventually nodded.

Lola was already walking ahead, all but willing to wait for him, and he caught up by jogging up to her sides. They kept a safe distance from each other, and Jean watched anxiously as they disappeared into the tunnel.

 

* * *

 

“You didn’t deny it,” Jean pointed out, though a bit timidly, when darkness settled in their dorm room. There was nothing but silence, most Ravens already asleep due to their shortened-days schedule, but somehow Nathaniel was always able to decipher Jean’s breathing.

“What didn’t I deny,” Nathaniel dully replied. He was tired in advance of this conversation, and much more of Jean’s bad habit at trying to spark up conversations when they were supposed to rest. Jean was always quiet the rest of the day, but perhaps did he feel safer in the familiar penumbra of their room.

“What they said, about you.”

It was vague and thoughtful, as though indulging Nathaniel, and he didn’t like it. “That I’m out of my mind,” he half-asked, half-deduced.

“Yeah, that, too,” Jean let out.

It was enough to make Nathaniel’s eyes snap open, and he stared at the ceiling in confusion. What could possibly be enough, beside Nathaniel’s infamous mental state, to keep Jean up at night?

“Did you get paired-up before me?” Jean asked out of the blue.

“This is irrelevant.”

“Not to me,” Jean snapped.

“No,” he said, and it was both a conclusion and an answer.

Jean figured it out, because he accepted it. Not for long, though.

“Why do you do this? All of this. During lunch, and at practice… I don’t get it.”

“Ask me once more and I’ll let them get to you next time. I’d gladly watch and you know it.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Jean said automatically, and though it shook with uncertainty, it was bold enough to ring in Nathaniel’s ears.

“Don’t be so sure about things. I’ll only disappoint you.”

Jean scoffed, but didn’t point out the ridiculous of it. He never expected anything out of Nathaniel, and maybe it was exactly why he’d never disappointed him. It was absurd to imagine it.

“You could have denied it straight away,” Jean held on. “You could have simply stated the truth and perhaps it would have been enough. They’re scared of you; they would have listened.”

“They never listen,” Nathaniel corrected sternly. His tone was cold and dry, full of secondhand hatred he rarely let show. There was something more dangerous underneath all that, and Nathaniel almost said it—but he fell silent instead.

“So you’d rather have them believing we’re boning than to bother explaining the truth?”

“What truth?” Nathaniel laughed dryly. That Jean was only willing to listen when Nathaniel was violent—it wasn’t worth explaining. “They’ll think what they want to think, in the end. This is not my problem, and it shouldn’t be yours, either. Now, my turn: why did you lie for me?”

It was a tiny thing to do, especially when it hadn’t worked, but Nathaniel asked on principle. “It seemed right,” Jean shrugged, and Nathaniel heard the faint rustle of sheets as he did. “I didn’t like what they were implying.”

“That we had a thing?” Nathaniel laughed, and it was even colder now than before.

“That you _forced_ me,” Jean corrected, as loud as fast.

Silence stretched out after his words, and they both thought about it in their respective side of the room.

“I’m not that weak,” Jean added tiringly.

“Submission is not weakness,” Nathaniel pointed out.

“Tell that to Riko.”

“Riko is none of our priorities.”

“Then what are they?” Jean hurried, and silence stretched out once again.

That they’d hit the wall once was astounding enough—twice, it was hardly believable. They fell silent on quiet agreement, pondering, weighing, carefully examining what path to engage on.

“I don’t know,” Nathaniel admitted, more softly than he’d expected. He was exhausted and lost. He recalled his words months ago, and repeated them clinically: “You trouble me greatly.”

He couldn’t see Jean’s smile from here, but it could be heard in his words when Jean spoke up.

“I hope so,” Jean answered. His words were different, and Nathaniel noticed it right away. For some reason, it felt important.

Nathaniel’s mind was a solid tower built on mistrust and detachment, but it didn’t mean it was unbreakable.


	4. He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel's short on coping mechanisms, but perhaps Jean will do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, thank y'all so much for your support.
> 
> French translation:  
> 1\. "You told me you were just like your father, remember?"  
> 2\. "Is he that terrible?"  
> 3\. "Your scars."  
> 

What Jean had missed the past two days, he finally noticed in the showers after morning practice. It was hard not to when Nathaniel’s arm attracted his eyes more than usual, though he couldn’t tell why. Perhaps it was the color of it, less pale and gentle than it usually was, or perhaps it was the hesitation lingering in each and every move Nathaniel did, as though trying to decide between pretending nothing had happened or consciously hiding his forearm.

It wasn’t much—but it was enough, and Jean, right on Nathaniel’s left in the half-emptied shower room, grabbed his forearm and pulled it straight in between their respective showers. Nathaniel frowned and his face went tight with aggression, but it was more instinctive than anything. On the other side, someone had turned around at the sudden move, but as they usually did when it concerned Jean and Nathaniel, he finished washing up like they weren’t there.

“What is that,” Jean asked though it sounded more like an order than a question.

Finally, Nathaniel pulled his arm free and spat, “mind your fucking business, Jean.”

Nathaniel’s bad habit of calling Jean by his name even through black anger was counter-productive, because it seemed to encourage him. He could blame it on Jean’s soft side and whatever things he always assumed whenever Nathaniel preferred to call him Jean despite the rest of team doing otherwise. It was proof they were closer than the rest, proof that Jean could get to him—and he’d always regret calling him by his name whenever he’d recognize that sharp glint of recognition in Jean’s eyes.

“You’re not leaving until you tell me where this comes from,” Jean ordered.

“What are you gonna do, hit me?” Nathaniel laughed—and where it would have sounded like the one and only warning to most, Jean only brushed it off with a careless shrug.

“If I have to.”

“Don’t make me kill you.”

Nathaniel’s voice was sharp, but Jean was dangerously determined. It was both the thing to loathe and admire about Jean, and right now, Nathaniel settled on the former. “Then tell me.”

Nathaniel gave a glance around them, checking who still lingered in the showers and who wasn’t, though it didn’t require the necessity of keeping a secret. He didn’t care that they’d hear, he simply didn’t want to talk about it.

Jean went silent, half-turned toward Nathaniel as he tried to remember when he’d last seen Nathaniel’s forearm bare and intact. “Yesterday?”

Nathaniel met his gaze and held on, fierce and daring. His frown deepened with seconds, and realizing Jean wasn’t backpedaling out of the conversation only served to incense him. He shook his head, slow enough that it’d be an answer against his will.

“Then when?” Jean insisted.

“Does it matter?” Nathaniel snapped back.

“Really?” Jean asked, but it was more unsettling than it should have been. It sounded like bitterness, something like disarray and disappointment mixed together. Nathaniel blamed it on Jean’s soft eyes. Then Jean reached forward and grabbed his arm again—Jean only managed so because he let him. “Do I need to spell it out for you?”

Jean’s eyes lingered on the circular burns lining Nathaniel’s inner forearm. There weren’t many of them, and they were sloppy enough that they weren’t neatly executed. In a rush, perhaps—or in a fight. Either way, Jean had never seen anyone in the Nest with a cigarette between their lips, much less a lighter. Weapons weren’t prohibited—nobody really cared about anything else than exy performances—but they were of no use. The Perfect Court’s cursed four didn’t have access to outside, anyways; nor the open stadium, neither the running tracks or the soccer field, much less life itself. Smoking inside was a risk with smoke sensors in each room and corridor, and there were definitely no windows.

“It’s that woman,” he concluded as he let a finger brush against Nathaniel’s tender skin where his wrist’s veins popped out. Nathaniel stayed silent, so he went on with a sigh. “Why did you let her?” It sounded like an accusation, but Jean’s anger was more self-directed than anything.

“I didn’t.” His voice was sheer fury, though he couldn’t tell if it was Jean’s attitude or the memories from Lola’s last visit. He could retrace the cuts left on the back of her hands and the red cheekbone she’d left with. To assume that Nathaniel would have left her hurt him without even trying to fight back was as absurd as it was offending.

“What is it? Lighters?”

“Cigarettes,” he corrected.

Outside the Nest, Lola’s brother Romero had been waiting for them. Long unused to the violence of daylight, it had taken a few seconds for Nathaniel to focus—enough for them to pin him against the stadium’s wall, for Romero to roll a sleeve up, and for Lola to slowly light a cigarette after another, crushing them out on his skin with a terrible smile. There was little he could have done but wiggle in their grip and cry out in pain. He hadn’t begged, he hadn’t cried—that was all he could take pride in.

It was predictable from his father’s men, and thinking about it now, he felt incredibly stupid for blindly following Lola to the exit without a second-thought. He’d been so eager to drive her out of Jean’s reach he couldn’t remember what had gone through his mind at that moment. A naïve rush of relief, perhaps; far from the sickening anticipation he should have been clever enough to entertain.

Jean made him weak, he made him distracted, and there was little in the world more dangerous than that.

“Why?” Jean’s question was so absurdly simple it threw him off.

Once again, Nathaniel pulled his arm free, but he kept curious eyes on Jean’s fingers. They were terribly soft for such weapons. Fingers long and pale, they looked like knives.

“They don’t need a ‘why’”, he snarled.

“They?” Jean echoed.

“Forget it,” Nathaniel sighed in annoyance and turned back to the wall as he ran tired palms through his hair. He slicked the red mess backwards and then rubbed the water out of his eyes.

He felt Jean stare a little longer, as he always did, but he eventually gave up with a low: “You’re so fucking terrible, Nathaniel.”

He accepted that without complaint. It was truth, and it was better than anything Jean could ever give him.

 

* * *

 

Instead of occupying a couch in one of the Ravens’ dens, they went straight to their room after showering. The bedroom looked gloomier on daytime than it did at night, mostly because they had to light every bulb to see a damn thing—and the Ravens’ spotless black was unforgivable. Jean’s anxiety was starting to settle, in a softer way than it usually did, more creeping distress than vicious panic. The difference was slight, almost imperceptible, but it was there and Nathaniel could easily pinpoint it.

They’d agreed to stay here for the half hour before lunch, preferring to let Ravens ahead than confront the crowded kitchens and their countless lingering eyes. They’d grown more than used to their scrutiny, both fearless and intimidated, but nobody had come to them since Nathaniel’s outrage. People would whisper about it when Nathaniel walked past, and they’d grow tense whenever Nathaniel grabbed a knife—or played with the pocketknife he always kept on him—but no one dared ask any question. It granted them an unexpected bit of privacy, and they cherished it for the short while it would last.

As soon as they settled on their respective beds, however, Nathaniel knew it was coming. He lied on his back comfortably, crossing nonchalant arms on his abdomen even when he felt his burns shot awake through the material of his black hoodie. It was hard to ignore them, but he was good at it, and they were pretty benign. Jean’s reaction had been too excessive, and he explained it on the ground that Jean had never met Nathan Wesninski.

He curiously wished he’d never have to.

“I hate her.”

Jean was being childish, and where he could have let anger settle back in, he chose to mock him. The snort was barely audible, but Jean had grown used to pay attention whenever it came to Nathaniel. He leaned back on his elbows, annoyed.

“I’m serious. If she touches you again—”

“She will,” Nathaniel snapped. “Get over it.”

“Is she…” Jean started, but he could tell with the hesitant way his voice searched for the right words that it wasn’t a pleasant question. Not one he’d like to answer, anyways.

Somehow, though he couldn’t tell why, he still did. “No.” After a pause, he glanced at the ceiling and tried to remember the sharp lines of his mother’s stern face. “Mom is more… she’s not that. She’s a different kind.” That was vague and unhelpful, but it was the best he could come up with. “I wish I could be more like her.” _Than my father_ was left unsaid, but Jean still heard it. The degree of self-loathing it implied was astounding.

“Don’t say that,” Jean frowned. Nathaniel leaned on his elbows in his turn, and they dared each other to look away first from their respective sides of the room. It was an oddly intimate thing to do, but Nathaniel wasn’t one to feel easily embarrassed. He could only watch as Jean’s endless possibilities at forming words ran across his face, and when he settled on a simple: “I trust you,” Nathaniel wasn’t ready.

He flinched—just enough that he lost his balance and fell back on his back. He didn’t bother moving after that, content with putting up with the black ceiling rather than Jean’s irritating eyes. They always shone with too much light, like they were trying to break free from something. He hated that. It screamed hope and it screamed naivety and that was all too dangerous to look at.

“Don’t,” Nathaniel said, and the silence that followed was almost a request, almost a plea.

 

* * *

 

It didn’t take long for his burns to start to heal, and it took even less for Nathaniel to try and make them stay. It was a stupid and painful thing to do, that, perhaps, nobody could really plainly understand—but Nathaniel was a master at self-destruction, and self-directed harm was all but new.

The first time he did it, it was in the questionable privacy of public toilets mid-practice. He’d tentatively slipped a finger under his long sleeve, and he’d pressed a little, just to check the level of pain. When he winced, he tried again, digging with his nail.

The second time, Jean was around—not that he really cared. They were sitting in a den, surprisingly alone, and Jean had his eyes to a book Nathaniel couldn’t bring himself to interest himself in. He’d never asked what it was about, so he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that it was in French—and that it kept Jean from staring intently at him like he’d watch his every move. His attitude often reminded him of his mother, and there was little more annoying than that in Nathaniel’s twisted world.

He’d simply rolled his half-sleeves a little further up, and with distracted fingers, had almost inadvertently scratched. The instant burn had brought him back to reality in less than a second, and the grimace that followed was barely enough to contain the pain. Jean had looked up, of course, both confused and discontented to have been distracted, and Nathaniel had dismissed him instantly. Needless to say it’d been useless, and in seconds Jean’s fingers were on Nathaniel’s arm again.

Nathaniel thought, absentmindedly, that this could be a problem if it grew into a habit, and promised himself to ask Jean to back off.

There were red lines on his arm where he’d thoughtfully scratched, a little too hard to have done it on purpose. It was the only thing that kept Jean from going mad.

“You’re one sick idiot, you know that,” he half-asked.

Nathaniel nodded defiantly, and Jean’s index dug into Nathaniel’s open palm for no reason. It was a strong and slender thing, and Nathaniel thought he could break his wrist in one sick move. Not that Jean ever would. He almost wished he would, though.

“Do you have any hobbies aside from clear self-destructiveness? You should find some,” Jean sighed. “Like, reading or drawing or dancing. This is nauseating.”

“I run,” he simply replied.

“You run,” Jean blankly echoed.

“I run,” he insisted. “And it’s partly why I’m better than you. Reading won’t make you any more efficient on the court.”

Jean snorted, lip curling as though about to contradict him, and he almost expected him to tell Nathaniel how wrong he was, how much better than him Jean was—but he didn’t. It was an odd sense of respect, or perhaps an even more odd sense of humility, and Nathaniel stared hard.

That Jean had silently agreed that Nathaniel was better than him, though it was unquestionable, was beyond him. Jean’s arrogance’s sole purpose was to deny this kind of attacks, and he’d this one slide without a twitch.

The only thing he could do distract himself from all those intrusive thoughts and unhelpful, instinctive study of Jean’s persona was a sudden shift of topics—one he knew Jean wouldn’t set adrift.

“I’m giving you a minute,” Nathaniel sighed, though it was more self-directed than anything else.

Jean only looked back in confusion, so Nathaniel allowed himself the rare opportunity of touching Jean. He didn’t touch his shoulder, nor did he touch his face—he went straight for the crook of his elbows, and gently stroked the soft skin where his track marks drew the awful shadows of a past.

He thought perhaps Jean would get angry at the contact and push him away, but he didn’t. Mostly because he was too startled to, both by Nathaniel’s sudden permission and sudden touch. It did feel good, however; an unmistakable kind of not-lonely, and if Jean looked down at the way Nathaniel’s fingers carefully retraced his scars, his gaze was heavy-lidded and softened by the pleasant shivers of the caress.

For someone so harsh and violent, Nathaniel was awfully gentle.

Jean thought about it. Nathaniel’s fingers on him were too much of a distraction, and if he only had a minute, he didn’t know where to start.

“I’ve never really belonged anywhere,” he shrugged, but lightly enough that it wouldn’t be mistaken as an invitation to get his hand back. “I thought perhaps I’d find out if… I don’t know. I’m not really sure why I did that. It seemed to me like it was the only thing left to do, the only option I had. It felt like I’d played all my cards and couldn’t handle the reality of me anymore. I needed a push, I needed a rush. The temporary reassurance that things could be alright or, at least, to escape until I’d forget they couldn’t.”

 _Talk about self-destructiveness,_ Nathaniel thought, but didn’t say.

“Did it work?”

“Yes.”

“But you dropped that anyways. What did you replace it with?” Nathaniel had only eyes for his track marks, but he felt his confusion miles away. “Replace a drug with another.”

“I have nothing.”

The loneliness of these words was hardly bearable.

Nathaniel broke the contact, and Jean frowned with a discontentment he kept to himself. It felt unfair and empty, but he knew better than to ask for more. It was already too much.

“Minute’s up,” Nathaniel simply said, and he got up.

Jean didn’t try to make him stay.

 

* * *

 

Four months later, Tetsuji decided to bring his Ravens to a professional exy match—he claimed it was for the sheer power of talent (seen live, he’d insisted) and that they all needed that to see how sickeningly good they needed to get. For most—within months. Nathaniel didn’t take the insult for him, as he knew full well he was already way more ahead than half the Ravens, if not more. He was naturally talented, he was determined and he was ruthless, the most dangerous piece of the Perfect Court quartet, for sure, though unquestioningly trapped in Riko’s chokehold. If he only had the permission to, he’d beat them all—and he’d do it bloodily. Perhaps it was the reason why Tetsuji allowed him to come along, though deprived of the urgency thanks to the two-year deadline still keeping him from joining the team. His number was official, and his talent undeniable—there was little Tetsuji needed more to agree.

They packed on the Ravens’ three buses, and pairs settled on one or two following benches each. Nathaniel and Jean went on the second bus, and went straight for the back—claiming the last and more comfortable bench. Riko and Kevin were in the first one, and though he’d feared Riko wouldn’t allow them to get out of his sight for the trip, the buses had packed quickly enough that they were able to disappear out of his reach because they’d hear about it.

It always threw Nathaniel off to realize how sickeningly close Jean and him were only when they were confronted with the rest of the Ravens, or people that had nothing to do with them. On the inside of their forceful alliance, they were enemies—daring each other and pushing one another to the limits anytime they could—but outside of it, they were fiercely having each other’s backs. He couldn’t explain any of that, and it was safer not to acknowledge it at all. Instead, he put his bag in between them and tried to ignore Jean’s fresh aftershave.

They were heading to New-York, and it was a safe solid seven hour trip. It was far enough that they’d decided to stay in a hotel overnight and hit the road the following day, and since the Edgar Allan had the best budget in college exy teams, it was the kind of hotel Nathaniel never dared to wish for. Luxury up to the fingertip, as nauseating as beautiful—and he, who’d grown in unspeakable wealth, was always comforted by the sight of it. It didn’t make him any more materialistic or superficial, but he enjoyed beautiful things when he saw them. It was enough for Nathaniel to look forward to, let alone exy; and he couldn’t help but shake with an enthusiasm he couldn’t contain.

It took an entire hour before Jean’s patience started to wear off. “Hey.”

Nathaniel didn’t look up, but he was so restless he almost jumped at the unexpected low sound of Jean’s voice. He found temporary comfort in thinking perhaps Jean would keep listening to his music if he ignored him hard enough, but when he saw Nathaniel wasn’t answering, he pulled on his earphones and sighed.

“Ignoring me?”

“Uninterested,” Nathaniel corrected.

“Pull the other one,” he growled. It took a few seconds for him to finally figure it out. It wasn’t simply that Nathaniel was excited—there was so much more to it. “When’s the last time you left the Nest?”

Except for supervised grouped official events, he couldn’t recall. The last time he’d seen the sunlight was when he’d accompanied Lola to the exit, but the time before that remained a mystery. He didn’t like how quickly Jean had caught on, and none of the Ravens on this bus could possibly understand: they had the privilege of going to class and to away games, enough that they’d see the sun on a daily basis. Perhaps was he even wrong and some of them were daily smokers thanks to this privileged exposure. But Nathaniel—he’d been at the Nest way before any of these Ravens were even enrolled.

“Can’t remember,” Nathaniel shrugged, and watched through the window as the bus pulled out of the garage. When sunlight came into view, Nathaniel couldn’t help but look away to protect his sensitive eyes. It took another minute to get used to the light, and Jean didn’t tear his eyes off of him for a single second.

Jean crossed his arms, leaned back on the bench and spread his knees, getting comfortable for the few hours to come. He put an earphone back in but left the other hanging at the collar of his black hoodie, though it was obvious Nathaniel and him weren’t going to talk during the trip.

Tetsuji ordered the first bus to find a rest-stop at the border of Maryland, and the two others followed wordlessly. When Nathaniel’s parked along the others, he felt Jean stir enough that it was obvious he’d fallen asleep without notice. He glanced at him as he got up, nervous at the thought of being left alone in public, but even through the hazy sleepiness blurring Jean’s eyes, he could see how alert his partner remained. He’d have gladly blamed it on the usual surroundings if it wasn’t for his own anxiety, and he knew, somehow without even thinking about it, that Jean was getting out of the bus just to keep him company.

He didn’t thank him, and he loathed him in silence for being so helpful. It didn’t make things easier for him—in fact, it was simpler to blame Jean for countless things than to let him smooth his edges. Now Jean was walking behind him hands in his front pockets, visibly sleepy, but determined to follow Nathaniel around. It wasn’t obedience—it was something like secondhand, distant worry, and he hated every bit of it.

He waited for Nathaniel at the door when Nathaniel entered the men’s toilets, and he followed him around when Nathaniel went in search of healthy snacks and a water bottle. He left it to another Raven to bring it to the assistant coaches in charge of the p-card, and went outside to stretch. Jean stood there in silence, hands still deep in his pockets, and calmly watched when Nathaniel ran laps up and down the store to keep his nervousness in check.

“What are you doing?” Jean eventually asked when Nathaniel ran past him, though it was more than obvious.

“Running,” he let out hurriedly to keep his breathing steady and turned tail for another lap. There wasn’t much Nathaniel liked as much as running, but it was hard to enjoy it when Jean’s eyes analyzed his every move and every step he took left him more restless than the previous one. He should’ve taken the hint and stopped, but his feet couldn’t. “Remember when you pissed me off with that self-destructiveness bullshit?” Jean didn’t move, so he went on as he passed him again. “It’s exactly what I’m doing. Coping with other means. Leave me the fuck alone.”

For a second, Jean turned as though going back on the bus, and Nathaniel’s chest tightened. He’d told him to, but he hadn’t really thought about it. In retrospect, being left alone was way more terrible than bearing Jean’s attitude, yet he wasn’t willing to admit it. Somehow, their pair-intimacy must have been enough of a link, and Jean resumed his position, as calm and unconcerned as he was a few seconds ago. Nathaniel glanced above his own shoulder and almost tripped with the distraction—but the short eye contact they allowed themselves was the closest thing to a _thank you_ they’d ever come to.

They went back on the bus five minutes later, and Nathaniel’s skin was burning with heat. He’d gone too hard too quick, and sweat was a terrible thing to bear in the questionable comfort of a bus, even a luxurious one. People came to life around them, eating and talking and playing music, passing drinks and walking to different benches, but neither Jean nor Nathaniel moved from theirs.

He ate his snack in silence and put the others in his backpack. After what it seemed like an eternity to Nathaniel, Jean breathed deep with boredom and side-eyed him, something in his hand that Nathaniel only recognized as being another earphone when he looked to check. He frowned, confused, but Jean only brought his offering palm closer.

He hesitated, only slightly so—then took the earphone and put it in his left ear. He had nothing left to lose and boredom was slowly eating its way through his impatience; besides, he’d always wondered what kind of music Jean listened to. (It turned out Jean listened to whatever motivational music athletes usually used for workouts, but he didn’t really mind.)

It made a good distraction, enough that they didn’t have to interact anymore, and Nathaniel felt grateful for it. The Ravens, who weren’t much more likely to approach them normally, would much less ignore the white string hanging in between them and disturb their faked peace of mind. It granted comfortable silence and sufficient privacy—two things Nathaniel had grown to intensely adore these past months. He blamed Jean’s existence, of course, though he couldn’t tell how.

 

* * *

 

It shouldn’t have taken Nathaniel that long to realize something was wrong. And in fact, it shouldn’t have taken that long for Jean to react, either.

When Nathaniel drifted back to reality, his ear hurt with discomfort and he recognized the familiar strain in his neck from countless after-practice soreness and just as countless sleepless nights. Everything was tilted to the side, and there was only one possible explanation for it. He jolted upright so brutally it made Jean jump, and he couldn’t tell with the way Jean looked back in surprise, if he’d been awake or asleep.

“Sorry,” he growled, but it was more of an insult out of his mouth than an apology. Jean picked up on it, because he frowned so deep Nathaniel could almost assume he’d hurt his feelings. The earphone fell flat against Jean’s arm, pulled out his reach, and Nathaniel settled in the far corner of the bench to avoid any contact.

Oh, he could still feel Jean’s familiar smell, and just as much the less familiar warmth radiating from his body. Breaking the contact left him cold all over, but it was necessary, and he felt sick remembering he’d fallen asleep against Jean’s shoulder. He couldn’t tell for how long, but already the sunlight was slowly fading, and he could tell by the way landscapes were getting more and more urban, that they were getting close to the destination.

Eventually, it took one more hour to get to New-York, and the better part of twenty minutes to spot the VIP parking spots they’d reserved for Edgar Allan outside the stadium. Tetsuji led them inside through a back entry surrounded by security officers, and the entire team waited in a staff corridor with their backpacks and duffel bags, four players entering the bathroom with their clothes at a time.

The outfit was pretty basic, yet expensive enough that it was unmistakably refined, and Nathaniel put on black slacks and a black shirt in less than two minutes. When he got out of the bathroom, Jean wasn’t around, and he rediscovered the anxiety-ridden feeling, as unpleasant as mesmerizing, to find himself without Jean. It was dizzying and somewhat unsettling, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do now or where to go, and it’s only when Jean got out of the bathroom in his turn with his bag in his hand that he visibly relaxed.

It wasn’t for long, though; Jean was incomprehensibly attractive, and perhaps was it the first time it’d struck Nathaniel so effectively. He’d always known Jean was easy on the eyes, just as Kevin was; it was the kind of thing you could hardly deny regardless of your age and gender and orientation. Nathaniel had never really bothered thinking about those things, aware that he, too, was one of those—but Jean was definitely _strange_. Perhaps it was his French side, or his attitude, or the proximity they had that made Jean all but a stranger, he couldn’t really tell, but there was definitely something that bugged him.

He gave a distracted once-over, quick enough that he didn’t linger, and ignored the way Jean’s gaze checked out in response.

It was absurd to think this team wasn’t charismatic, even more that this team wasn’t powerful, and the influence they had was easy to witness as they progressed through the halls towards their VIP tower. Fans on the way recognized them instantly, and Nathaniel’s arrogance wasn’t enough to mask his sudden rush of anxiety—but Jean was efficient enough that he grabbed his sleeve before any of them could spot him. Or, _them_ —the Perfect Court had its newest member, and it was the first time the four of them were out in public together. Pictures would have been inevitable if Jean hadn’t been quick to pull him out of their sight. They were content hiding behind the mass until Tetsuji got the green light, and only two or three Ravens bothered to wave back to a handful of fans as they passed.

The VIP room was a waking dream. There was free food service, black leather armchairs, couches and footstools; there was a bar and three freezing buckets with expensive Champagne inside, and a flock of flutes waiting for them. Nathaniel wondered if he’d be offered any as he was underage, but then again, most of the Ravens were. It didn’t seem like an important detail, however, and Jean and Nathaniel sneaked in a far corner with half-filled flutes to escape the potential repercussions of their boldness.

“Do you think they’ll take it from us when they realize we served ourselves?” Jean asked with the ghost of a smile hovering his lips. He looked fresh and clean, his dark hair slicked back and clear eyes shining with something unusual—excitement, perhaps.

“We didn’t serve ourselves,” Nathaniel said as he looked back at the waiters in uniforms.

“Right,” he agreed. “Feels like a dream to be honest. The clothes, the drinks, the suite… it doesn’t make sense.”

Nathaniel was barely stunned by luxury anymore, but he could understand. “They have the means. They want the best for the best, I’ll assume.”

He almost told him to wait for the hotel, but his own excitement was too much to contain and he didn’t want to drown in it. Instead, he emptied his flute in two direct swigs, and put it on the nearest surface with the rushed stealth of a guilty thief. He didn’t fear the consequences, but if he wasn’t caught red-handed with a flute between his hands, it meant he could use another joker card and steal a second flute. Nathaniel had never been drunk in his entire life, but Champagne was an enjoyable taste on his tongue, and he thought he might get used to it.

They looked through the wide ceiling-to-floor-length windows and straightened in anticipation as they saw Exy teams jogging to the inner court. Jean almost missed it, but he managed to catch a glimpse: right there, for the second time in a very long time, he saw Nathaniel abandon one of his true smiles.

 

* * *

 

“Are you hungry?” Nathaniel asked, hands deep in the pockets of his slacks as they walked through the wide corridor. They were bringing up the rear as they generally did, and most of the Ravens were headed to the dining room of their luxurious hotel for a late diner. It was an open buffet, but Nathaniel had stolen enough appetizers in the VIP room that he couldn’t think about food anymore.

Jean shook the negative, and Nathaniel smirked. He didn’t know why—he just did. It took a few seconds for him to register, and the way he let a low chuckle fill the comfortable silence between them made him frown. Nathaniel hadn’t pinched only two flutes; he’d had about a dozen, all reasonably filled for public events, but mostly spaced out in a tight half hour, and he was left agreeably dizzy from the alcohol.

It was hard to tell from afar, as he walked straight and looked away, but the unusual relaxation in his attitude was enough to betray him. Only Jean could probably tell, but it wasn’t like Ravens interact with among themselves anyways.

“Fuck,” Jean cackled in his turn when he pulled a magnetic card out of his pocket. They’d been distributed by the assistant coaches to all pairs, all on the same floor, and they were left with the freedom of either dining together or heading up to their rooms and sleep. The night would be short and the trip that followed would be terrible, but Nathaniel was willing to ignore these two terribly unpleasant knowledges to get the best of the night. What was left of it, rather—and Jean shook the card in the air as they walked to the elevator.

Two other Ravens got in the elevator with them, and Nathaniel leaned against the side wall with a dangerous smile that left them silent all the way up. He liked the way people usually shut up when they got close to him, the way they behaved and tensed and waited. It was something that amused Jean greatly, and now that there was about as much alcohol in his system, the evidence of it was a mocking smile splitting his face in two.

When the doors opened, the pair rushed out of the elevator so swiftly it left Jean chuckling behind them. Nathaniel only allowed a ghostly smile, way more than he usually would, and they headed to their room in a steady, patient walk that was tipsily obvious. It didn’t rob them of their charm, however, and Nathaniel decided he was made for this kind of life. Luxury and VIP passes were things to easily grow fond of, and Nathaniel had already been born in a pool of money, despite not really enjoying any of it. He was only a few years from being pro, and his assured career path guaranteed fame and money, big cities and skyscrapers, suite rooms and shiny cars. He was nothing compared to exy itself, but it was a comfortable bonus he liked thinking of.

When Jean slid the card in the magnetic slit and pushed the door open, they stood in silence and gazed back at each other. The room was picture perfect, with two wide beds and slick furniture, endless bay windows that looked out on New-York and its sleeplessness, the never-ending rush of adrenalin.

“How hard do you think it’s going to be to go back to the dorms after that,” Jean said as he stepped inside, and Nathaniel obediently followed.

Jean took the first bed so Nathaniel took the other, and they sat there trying to pull themselves back to soberness with all their might. It didn’t work, though, and soon enough Nathaniel’s face cracked in the distinguishable steps of a progressive smile. Jean didn’t miss a thing, too stunned to really look away, and Nathaniel let him.

“I’m not going back,” Nathaniel said, and though it was a lie, they pretended otherwise.

Nathaniel pushed himself off his bed and almost stumbled on the way up. He pulled his shirt out of his slacks and focused on unbuttoning it with clumsy hands. It was pitying enough that Jean almost got up and helped him, but watching Nathaniel grow more and more frustrated with every passing minute was too satisfying. When finally Nathaniel shrugged his shirt off and tried to neatly fold it, in vain, Jean got up and crossed his arms.

“Okay, what,” Nathaniel finally let out when Jean couldn’t hold back a mocking smile.

“Is that the first time you’re drinking?”

Nathaniel’s face went tense, but Jean knew better than to think it was a warning. It was only Nathaniel crawling back to the comfort of his own pride, and it was enough encouragement to go on.

“It’s okay, I respect that. I think it’s pretty cute how you’re handling it.”

Nathaniel huffed in indignation, but Jean was visibly too amused. Stealing so many flutes had probably been a terrible idea, but they wouldn’t live long enough to regret it. Tonight felt surreal, especially when New-York shone all around. Something bumped against a wall in the corridor and he guessed he wasn’t the only one to be slightly off.

“I’m handling it perfectly,” he insisted, but the time he took to stress the words proved otherwise. It was careful and self-conscious, neatly avoiding to stutter.

“Perfectly, he says,” Jean mocked. “Getting drunk for the first time on Champagne only, what a fancy boy.”

Nathaniel turned around to hide his blushing cheeks, mostly due to the alcohol, but he heard Jean’s steps behind him. He didn’t tense, not like he should have. It was Jean. It made it enough reason to trust—and it was sickening and abnormal and terrifying. It’d only been Nathaniel and Nathaniel alone, and now it was Nathaniel and Jean, and for some unknown reason he was slowly getting okay with it.

Time stretched out and stopped, unreal; a warm breath tickled the back of his neck and he closed his eyes at the softness of it. It was light and enjoyable, and he shivered so hard he felt Jean step back. He was about to reassure him that it was neither violence nor fear, but something hovered the back of his neck again, this time a little bit closer, and Nathaniel’s mouth stilled, open but quiet, paralyzed mid-word.

It was wrong in so many ways he didn’t know where to start, but he was too exhausted to fight him off to really care. He figured it was Jean’s nose resting against his skin, and when something warm tickled him again, that he’d brought wordless lips to his neck. He let Jean breathe against him, patient and calm, more appeased than they should have been. He could tell Jean had his hands in his pockets, and perhaps he shouldn’t have been as frustrated as he was then at the realization.

“Jean,” Nathaniel started, and it was shier than he’d ever sounded.

“Yes,” he breathed out against his skin.

“Nothing,” he backpedaled and closed his eyes again.

They stayed like this for a minute or two, standing still and without a word, content with just doing that. They were tipsy and exhausted, adrenaline still pumping in their veins, and Nathaniel easily recognized the blurry hands of sleepiness. Jean let his lips drag down Nathaniel’s neck and then, just like that, they disappeared. He was a little upset but he didn’t protest, and when he turned around Jean was already shirtless, searching for a chair to put his clothes on.

Nathaniel picked up the bag the staff had brought there beforehand and traded his slacks for sweatpants. His mind was clouded enough that he didn’t linger on what had just happened more than that, and by the time he slipped between the sheets, he was already closer to somnolence than he’d expected.

Jean turned the lights off and sighed on his way to the bed, room lit enough by the city night lights for him to find his way back. Nathaniel heard the rustle of sheets, the shift of a mattress, and some more rustling—but he fell asleep almost instantly.

 

* * *

 

Morning was a harsh wake-up call none of the Ravens had really asked for. They were back in the buses at six a.m., all showered and back in loungewear, the unusual fanciness from last night long forgotten. People’s faces were groggy with remaining bits of sleep and their eyes red with fatigue, and Nathaniel couldn’t count the number of coffee cups being handed from a palm to another. He was offered one, quite respectfully, by another Raven, and he took it without a word.

Jean was a minute late, but Nathaniel still held an expectant palm when he approached a group, more likely than the others, and he was handed a second coffee without question.

When Jean appeared, hair messy from waking up too late to shower, and though they’d bumped into one another countless times before checking out of the room, he still recognized that unexpected bit of surprise one usually has when taken aback. He didn’t linger on it, and he didn’t mention it, either—it wasn’t worth the effort and it was too late in the morning to care even if he wanted to. He missed the warmth of the sheets already, and even more, the suffocating adrenalin of watching professional exy happening under his feet for the first time in his existence.

More than ever before now, he wanted to be old enough to join the Ravens, and he wanted to graduate from Edgar Allan. Impatience was a dangerous thing to allow, though, and he sulked in silence as he breathed over his coffee to cool it down.

Jean stopped closer to him than anyone would have dared to, and Nathaniel handed the coffee without a word. He seemed surprised but didn’t mention it—he knew better. If Nathaniel had bothered collecting a cup for him on his free will, then he wouldn’t bother asking why. Enjoying the simple things was an unpleasant but necessary thing to do when befriending Nathaniel Wesninski, and he was getting quite good at it.

The soft Raven boy Nathaniel openly tolerated—Richard, his name was—sat on the bench before theirs after an hour on the road, mostly to discuss the match, and Jean was quick to realize how much of a gap there was between Nathaniel and the rest of the Ravens. He knew Kevin was a terrible competitor, and that somehow Riko was off contest the same way a dictator or a referee would be, but it still stunned him to be reminded of Nathaniel’s level. On his side, he’d gotten good enough to deserve his place on the team, and it was only a matter of weeks before he’d start official summer practice—hardly months before he’d enroll in Edgar Allan.

Nathaniel gave out clinical advice, criticized the play and underlined the best parts of it, and Richard swallowed his every word with a concentration that was long-practiced.

Truth is, Jean didn’t like him. Richard hadn’t done anything, not really; but he was there and it was almost too much. He blamed it on being used to staying with Nathaniel only, a pair more synchronic than not, hardly ever mingling. He tried to stay out of it, but he couldn’t help the side glances, checking Nathaniel for micro-expressions and hints that Richard should be sent back to his place.

When it was clear Richard had no questions left, Jean made a point to stare until he’d feel compelled to return to the front of the bus. He nodded in Nathaniel’s direction, who only acknowledged the gesture with a passive curl of his lip, and Jean watched him go until he disappeared between the seats.

“He’s stupid,” Jean growled. He wasn’t sure why exactly.

“He’s young,” Nathaniel corrected.

Richard was a year older than Jean and three than Nathaniel, but he was a frail and timid thing that quickly stood out among the Ravens. Nathaniel should have mocked his inferiority and his softness, but after being surrounded by the Ravens’ aggression for years, it was an exception he was willing to make. Richard had mastered the drills in only a few weeks, and his performance on the court left no doubt as to whether or not he deserved his position of defensive dealer. What Nathaniel appreciated in him, he wasn’t sure, but he was easier to tolerate than the rest and he never pried.

Surely, he wasn’t going to stand up for Nathaniel if the Ravens ever crossed a line—but he wasn’t going to defy Nathaniel, either, and that was all he needed to know.

A smirk curled the corner of his mouth as he looked around to stay awake. “He’s afraid of you, you know?” Nathaniel said. It wasn’t really a question, and the confused look Jean gave him wasn’t an answer either. “He thinks you have a problem with him, or something. That’s why he never gets closer than necessary.”

“He doesn’t seem to mind getting close to you.”

Nathaniel shrugged. “He’s not afraid of me.” Jean couldn’t tell if he looked appeased or bothered by the statement—for someone who everyone feared, it had to be unsettling. Richard was all but strong and defiant, and he couldn’t understand what in Nathaniel had made him feel safe enough to grow past the rumors and reputations. Then again, Jean _did_ feel safe at his sides—but this had nothing to do with all that, he thought.

“Shouldn’t he?” is all he managed, albeit bitterly.

“Certainly,” Nathaniel conceded, and looked outside the window as they changed lanes. He couldn’t blame the loneliness: Nathaniel was too much of a loner to appreciate rare companionship like others would. It was more along the lines of respect, or something subtler—Richard looked up to him, and though he was no good example, it was a satisfying feeling to have. “But I can teach him some things.”

“Exy?” Jean guessed. They’d only talked about game strategies and the importance of synchrony and defiance on a court, and he hadn’t heard them once derail from the conversation to more personal topics. Not that Nathaniel would have answered, anyway.

“Mostly.” Nathaniel looked at him, and there was only exhaustion in his eyes. He was struck with the faint remembrance of what had brushed the back of his neck hours ago, and it was almost enough to forget what he was about to say. He swallowed dry, more irritated than he was before. “He needs to get tough, too.”

“And you’re going to teach him how to?” Jean’s voice was half disbelief and half mockery.

“I’m a good teacher,” Nathaniel replied with a frown made of seriousness and cold indifference. He wasn’t going to let Jean call his teaching skills into question, not when he was the one who’d helped him master the Ravens drills every morning. Looking at Jean’s arrogant eyes now, he couldn’t remember why he’d agreed.

There was something way past exy, though, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint it. It was harsh and ruthless, something he’d inadvertently taught Jean month after month. Now the lines were blurry and unsure, and he’d softened too much in Jean’s presence. It should have been a wake-up call, the last warning before things turned ugly, but Nathaniel was as hot-headed as he was obstinate. It made him linger on Jean’s face a second too long, and he decided he’d take care of the problem later.

He thought perhaps he could watch unfocused landscapes passing on the highway, but Jean had decided otherwise. The sigh Nathaniel knew was coming was barely held back.

“Why did you do to leave them so wary?” It was sheer curiosity, and Nathaniel allowed himself to catch Jean’s puzzled eyes.

“Besides the obvious?” he mocked humorlessly.

“I can never tell if they’re oddly respectful or straight-up terrified. Sometimes they seem to get a grip, but then you snap and they go running.”

Nathaniel’s off-and-on peace treaty with the rest of the Ravens wasn’t something he’d spent a long time pondering on. It was, at best, a distraction at times—but it was even more an inconvenience he had to deal with most of the time. Ravens would come and go, enroll and graduate, some would get better and some wouldn’t, and he’d earned more than one Raven’s respect along the way. Now that Jean was pointing it out, he couldn’t tell if it had been true respect or tainted with the fear of Nathaniel’s unpredictability.

He thought about this for so long he hadn’t realized his silence had answered for him. He could only brace himself when Jean switched to French with the words he didn’t want to hear: “Tu m’as dit que tu étais comme ton père, tu te rappelles ?1”

“I do,” Nathaniel growled. It was a warning, but he knew Jean wouldn’t rise to the bait.

“Est-ce qu’il est si terrible que ça ?2” Jean asked, tentatively. His voice had gone much softer, and Nathaniel wasn’t sure if it was because of the French or because of the minefield he was knowingly stepping on.

Nathaniel stared hard. It wasn’t something he wanted to answer, and it surely wasn’t in a Raven bus at seven a.m. that he was going to force himself to. Jean was insanely wrong if he thought he had power over him, and them being partners didn’t lessen the importance of their boundaries. It was off-limits, and Jean knew it too well.

He kept going, still, tiptoeing the line of reasonable. “Tes cicatrices,3” he deduced in a low, grave voice. There was subtle hint of horror in it, and Nathaniel hated him for that.

“We don’t talk about him.”

He knew he’d only earned Jean’s silence because he was shaken up, but it was enough for now. He pretended none of this had been discussed and stared in the distance through the window, cupping his empty coffee like it could distract him from the ghost of Nathan’s hands.

It was unsettling, and perhaps even more terrifying, that his father still had that much influence over him even after years and years. He hadn’t seen him since he’d been sold to the Moriyamas—not that he could complain—and his name hadn’t been mentioned by anyone but Riko to rile him up. Though his family name was right there on his practice jerseys, no Raven was smart and informed enough to put two and two together, and nobody had ever questioned him about Nathan Wesninski. About his father, yes; to which he usually said family wasn’t a value his ancestors had really cherished. He was a free and independent child—though the “free” part was debatable—and he didn’t hold a lot of affection for his family, that was it. Perhaps rarely dared to go further, and it was public knowledge in the Nest that Nathaniel and his family were now estranged. It was as taboo a topic as it could be, and Riko himself sometimes didn’t have the guts to bring it up.

He knew too much, and so did Kevin. Jean, however? He’d come along too late, and nobody had considered it necessary to inform him of all the truths kept hidden in their close three-men circle. It would have been easier to tell Jean everything when he’d arrived, and it would spared him a lot of unpleasant conversations, but somehow he found comfort in thinking Jean was still untouched. By all of his—the corruption, the sickness, the knives and the cleavers, the man his father had cut into pieces in front of them. He could recall Kevin’s livid expression a little too well, and it always made him sick to the guts.

No, he wouldn’t discuss that with Jean. He was a wild animal, he was—but he was soft enough that learning certain things would crack him a little deeper. It wasn’t innocence; it was ignorance, and Nathaniel thought it suited Jean way better.

 

* * *

 

“He’s doing good,” Kevin nodded almost to himself.

Nathaniel looked up, but he only lingered on Kevin’s face for a second or two before scanning the dining hall. It wasn’t crowded, much less than it usually was at least, because the team nurses were doing check-ups. Riko and Jean were missing, their names lost in a sea of M’s. Kevin had gone early in the morning, and Nathaniel still had yet to go. His was for the courtesy of it, as he wasn’t yet enrolled in the Ravens’ official team, but Jean’s was mandatory as summer practice approached.

It was unnerving, and though Nathaniel had first blamed the fact he couldn’t enroll yet, he’d soon come to the realization being far from Jean wouldn’t help. It wasn’t literally _far_ in the barest sense, it was Jean going to class a few times a week, it was Jean practicing with Riko and Kevin for official scrimmages he wouldn’t be part of, it was Jean going on away games while he’d stay here in the Nest. Solitude had always been comfortable and now it was bloodcurdling, and he couldn’t bear the thought of being far from Jean for too long.

It was an inevitable consequence of the Raven’s system, for sure, but he’d gotten used to Jean’s company so much it was hardly describable. In fact, a part of him wanted to make sure _he_ would never be alone, follow Jean around and scare off whoever might think they had the right to come for Jean. Hit him, touch him, throw him onto the floor with the ruthless violence of Exy top-ranked teams.

“He is,” Nathaniel agreed after a while.

Jean had mastered all drills long ago, now, and none of them were required to clean the court off after practice anymore. It was given to the next worse players, as Jean had inevitably gotten better. It was a progress Nathaniel was partly responsible for, but he could never deny Jean’s natural talent for the position. When it’d been astounding to watch him play on his first day and then, saddening to pick up on his flaws the following, it was now purely satisfying to observe from afar. Jean was smooth and accurate, scarily fast—though he had nothing on Nathaniel’s speed—and way more efficient than he ever had been before.

“How do you feel?” Kevin asked, and it was unexpected enough that Nathaniel shot him an odd look. Kevin only shrugged with the warm nonchalance of their passive friendship. “It’s the last step before he joins the team.”

Nathaniel feigned indifference with a slight shrug, but Kevin knew better. Nobody understood anxiety better than Kevin did.

“Don’t feed me that crap,” he warned with that superior tone he often used. It was arrogant and teacher-like, and it felt him feeling like Kevin was a big brother of some sort. Frustrating, restrictive and haughty. “You’re not used to being split, are you?”

He was referring to their pair, and Nathaniel realized in a heartbeat they’d never been separated from the other up till now. He shook his head, and Kevin nodded.

“It’s going to be hard,” he said without any kind of tact. It was the most compassionate Kevin could be, but it still made Nathaniel grit his teeth in annoyance at the words. He didn’t need to hear it from Kevin—he knew it already, too well. It was frightening and anxiety-inducing, and it never stopped, it never stopped. It lingered around, flowed in his veins like poison; a level of codependency that could only end in blood—or tears.

Pensively, without really realizing it, Nathaniel rolled a hoodie sleeve upward to reveal the ugly scarring Lola had left behind. It wasn’t much and it could easily be missed by inattentive eyes, but Jean had been the only one to say a word about it. Now the wounds had healed and he couldn’t dig ruthless fingers in the flesh anymore, there was no way to inflict pain on himself and he hated it. Aside from locking himself up in the weights room to run on the treadmill for hours, there wasn’t much he could do to contain his self-destructive streak. Riko was good at making him sore and leaving him bloody, but pain didn’t feel as satisfying when it was given from Riko’s hands.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he snarled.

Kevin stared without blinking, all but afraid. He’d seen Nathaniel angry and he’d seen him broken to pieces. He’d hauled him up to his feet after Riko’s spurts of cruelty, and he’d dragged him to the showers countless times. He’d seen his father, he’d seen his scars, he’d seen his red-hot anger that only made him more of a Wesninski. He didn’t fear Nathaniel. In fact, there was little Kevin feared more than Riko and his uncle. Mediocrity, perhaps—but Kevin was a champion.

“How are you going to cope?” he asked as he gestured at Nathaniel’s scarred forearm. In response, he only rolled the sleeve down and crossed his arms as though setting up a solid barrier between the two of them. He didn’t want Kevin getting any closer than that, be it with hands or with words. “It’s not going to work,” Kevin went on at Nathaniel’s silence.

At first he couldn’t tell if Kevin referred to his inability to cooperate, or the questionable coping mechanisms he’d found so far. Wounds once healed and bruises once vanished weren’t of much use anymore.

“I’ll find something.” He didn’t mind running a little more than he already did. His thighs were toned with countless hours of training, with entire nights spent running without interruption instead of asking for sleep. Yet running was of little comfort when confronted to what was coming. A shaky routine partly made of waiting for Jean and partly made of pushing him away.

“I won’t be there, either.” Kevin’s absolute lack of delicacy was slowly going on Nathaniel’s nerves, but the words somehow made up for it. Kevin was trying, and more than that, he was worrying. It could hardly be seen through the thick layers of arrogance and disregard frozen on his pretty face, but Nathaniel knew Kevin like he knew himself. Across the borders of intimacy, without taboo, with an accuracy was could only frighten.

“I don’t care,” he shrugged. “I’ve done this before. I’ll occupy myself or fill the gaps with other Ravens.”

“Won’t be enough,” Kevin stated in a monotonous tone as he reached for his apple. Nathaniel watched as he did, brows furrowed in irritation.

“Stop that.”

“I’m just preparing you.”

“I don’t need to be prepared.”

“Have you talked about this with him?” Kevin asked, practical, and it made Nathaniel’s guts churn to realize he hadn’t. Jean and him probably knew each other well enough for words to be unnecessary, but Nathaniel’s mood swings were only going to be more terrible as days passed. It’d make them crazy, it’d make them tense, and it was obvious they would have to talk this through before the start of the school year. “It’ll be hard for him, too. You’ll have to talk about it eventually. The sooner the better, Nathaniel.”

“Fuck off,” he growled. He didn’t believe it would be as hard for Jean as it would be for him, because Jean would get to see the world. Not much—but enough—and perhaps enough that Nathaniel would be pushed into the background.

Caring for people wasn’t something Nathaniel had a lot of practice in, but more importantly, Nathaniel wasn’t used to like his own importance in other people’s lives. So far he’d only been a disposable thing, a temporary and unsteady problem to deal with, or some investment to get the best of. He was used, feared, looked up to, but none of them really cared.

Kevin did, to some extent; and though his affection was twisted and barely shown, it was there.

Jean, though. Nathaniel was the center of his dark little world, and no matter how many times he would try to deny it, the reverse was also true. They were each other’s priority, forcefully or not, and they put up with each other night and day. It felt painful to be left behind, and the perspective of being forgotten even just a little word was so hard to stomach Nathaniel didn’t touch his food.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve got a question for you,” Nathaniel asked as he crossed his arms and leaned against the lockers.

Despite his modest height, Nathaniel had this naturel way of being intimidating, and Jean took a second to take his expression in. It was irritating, but acceptably so—and it was dark, unusually dark. He figured this was a conversation Nathaniel didn’t want to have, and the effort was enough of an evidence that he relaxed.

“Okay,” he said.

Nathaniel opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He didn’t really know where to start, and he certainly didn’t know how to say these things. Jean waited patiently, trading his t-shirt for his protection gear, but he didn’t take his eyes off of Nathaniel, fearing he’d backpedal if given the opportunity to.

He’d waited as long as he’d been able to. Two or three weeks, he couldn’t tell. Kevin’s conversation had rattled things he didn’t want to think about, but it had taken long enough to gather the courage to bring it up, even more to put his pride aside, and now that he wanted to have the conversation, he couldn’t bring himself to find the right words. It was ridiculous.

“Nathaniel,” Jean called, but it didn’t sound furious or impatient. It was oddly calm, and, just as he’d feared, oddly worried. It wasn’t something he’d gotten to see very often on Jean’s tense face, but when he did, it left him more unsettled than he wanted to.

“You’re soon starting school,” he let out. It wasn’t much and it wasn’t enough, but it was all he could afford.

“I am.”

Jean gave Nathaniel another few seconds to think this through, and when he came out as quiet as before, he took a step forward. He dropped his protection gear on the bench and laid a flat palm against the lockers, near the side of Nathaniel’s head.

“There’s a problem,” Jean deduced, and he was way too close.

“There’s a problem,” Nathaniel confirmed—it was an understatement, but it was close enough.

“Can I fix it?” Jean suggested. It was unexpected from him, and Nathaniel squinted in mistrust.

“Why would you?”

“I’ll take that as no.” Nathaniel was slowly closing himself up, so he sighed and went on. He could tell Nathaniel’s body warmth from here. “I’ll take my guess and say you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Nathaniel spat back. It was vile and defensive, more Nathaniel that he’d been since the beginning of this conversation. “Are you?” he dared, and he didn’t tear his gaze off of Jean’s.

It was clear defiance, and Jean hesitated between admitting the obvious or comforting his pride. No matter how much they were allies, they were still rivals to some extent, and it was tempting to choose feud over humility. But it was Nathaniel, and the fact alone that he’d initiated the conversation was enough to make up his mind.

“Perhaps.” It was half-admitted, but it was the best Jean could do.

It threw Nathaniel off, he could tell—and he flinched almost imperceptibly against the lockers. Jean let his arm fall back against his sides but made no move to step back.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said. Far from Kevin’s lack of tact, it was delicate and unexpectedly soft, and Nathaniel wasn’t used to it. He looked at Jean like he wasn’t buying it, and Jean sighed after a moment of distrustful silence. “It’s going to be okay and I know it.”

“Liar,” Nathaniel shook his head. He couldn’t see how okay things could be when they’d be tainted with anxiety attacks and the ghost of loneliness. At least Jean would distract himself with classes and teammates and Exy. It hurt more than he’d prepared for it to, to be the last one of the row, the younger of the four. He wanted to join the team already, and he wanted to stick with Jean no matter what. That, he wouldn’t admit—yet somehow there was no need to.

When Jean put a tentative hand on the side of his face, Nathaniel let him. It cupped his ear and left a strange warmth on his skin, a soft gesture he’d never thought he’d live long enough to be offered. He fought back the need to push him away, and focused on whatever darkness seeped through Jean’s eyes.

He waited for the words, waited for Jean to say something like he seemed about to—but silence stretched out and eventually the changing room’s doors opened as Ravens rushed in. Jean took back his hand, albeit slowly enough that he didn’t fear being caught red-handed, and Nathaniel watched with furious eyes as he turned away and got changed.

It wasn’t fair—he didn’t have the right to do that. To cross the lines and put a foot there, and then back off suddenly without any kind of explanation. He could still trace the frame of Jean’s fingers where they’d touched his cheek, and he hated himself for not ordering Jean away when it would have been wiser to. He’d let him get close, once again, and it left him fuming with a long-lost fury the whole training.

Ravens grew wary as minutes passed, avoiding contact if it wasn’t strictly necessary, unused but understanding towards Nathaniel’s innate violence. He sent a few strikers sprawling, and one of them had to be benched to recover; as for those who stepped too close to Jean, he only body-checked them with all the brutality he was capable of on the next serves. It was subtle enough that it didn’t spark up any fight, but it wasn’t subtle enough that anyone got fooled. Nathaniel being territorial of Jean was all but a new thing, even when they carefully ignored each other.

The Raven who’d been benched was left in charge of the court, and Nathaniel followed the rest of the Ravens to the locker room in silence. It took a full day of practice after that for Nathaniel to stop ignoring Jean, and when he did, it was easy to retrieve his former aggressiveness towards him. He’d softened somewhere along the way, and if it wasn’t enough of a bad omen, it was all Nathaniel had ever feared.

He wasn’t letting Jean any closer from now on, he promised—but even in his head, it felt like a lie.


	5. Hand in unlovable hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moody boys, pride and victory, and inevitable bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not confident posting this because I've written this like two/three days ago, don't remember what's in it, and have the overwhelming feeling that it's utter shit—but that's okay, I'll edit this in the morning ok don't cry
> 
> Same as always, there's [the playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1157367950/playlist/5unUn7loUTaNOiVJHAYxeM) I update on a daily, [my tumblr here](http://wesninskids.tumblr.com) and all. Thank you lovelies for your comments you are blessed and make my day. Here are the French translations:
> 
> 1\. “Why so?”  
> 2\. “I heard them talk, earlier on.” (…) “About you.”  
> 3\. “So what, you think I’m afraid of them? Soon enough, it’s me they’ll be afraid of.”  
> 4\. “Are you mad at me?”

Lunch was a tense, quiet thing. For some reason, Kevin and Riko started eating with them both on a daily basis, and if Nathaniel’s cold shoulder wasn’t enough, Riko’s presence filled the gaps. It got to the point Jean stopped trying to reach out, and nobody but Riko did talk during lunch. Not that they had anything relevant to say, and not that Riko would have let them anyways.

When Riko disappeared for a minute, Nathaniel finally bothered to look up, and he instantly spotted Theodora’s dark skin tone in the background as he did. She must have felt it, because their eyes met, and they both exchanged a polite, wordless nod. It was respect and it was acknowledgement, and Thea had earned his interest with the years. He vaguely gestured in her direction when she looked away, and Kevin peeped above his shoulder to check as Jean’s curious gaze followed.

“In less than a week she’ll be far, far away.” Nathaniel’s voice wasn’t meant to be that cold, but it came out so brutal they both saw Kevin flinch. Thea had been offered a place on the national Court—which she’d refused, intent on graduating first. Her focus and seriousness was worth every bit of Kevin’s interest, and Nathaniel had noticed a long, long time ago how his green eyes followed everywhere she went.

“Why do you think I care?” Kevin mumbled as he turned back to Nathaniel. So he’d settle for denial—Nathaniel was okay with that. It’s not like he hadn’t grown terribly good at spotting liars off the bat, and it’s not like he really cared either.

“Your loss,” he shrugged, and he felt the weight of Jean’s gaze on him. He didn’t return it, more than determined to make Jean snap first. He’d tried and tried and tried to get to him, and then he’d given up, but it wasn’t enough. Nathaniel didn’t want peace—he wanted to see Jean lose control. He wanted to see Jean so furious he’d recognize the sharp need to break his every bone flashing in his eyes like his father used to. It never took too long to push Nathan Wesninski off the limits of his very restricted patience, and it was never a beautiful thing to witness.

Nathaniel had seen plenty of horrors. He could bear it, and he was fine with it. Surely, they flashed in blood-red nightmares and stained his palms like guilt, but a murderer’s son was bound to grow familiar to this sort of mischief. He needed Jean to yell, to scream until words burned his throat on the way out. He needed to see Jean broken into countless pieces, face tense and cheeks red with anger. It didn’t matter how long it would take; he’d get to it, eventually.

He wasn’t too sure why he wanted so. Perhaps was it his own fury, one too exhausting he didn’t want to express it anymore. He’d been violent too many times, he’d been wroth for too long. Now he needed things to shift, if only for a short second, he needed to remember what it felt like to be scared.

Maybe Jean Moreau had lost the taste of danger. Maybe he’d stopped fighting.

It didn’t really matter. Though he could feel Jean slowly growing more and more frustrated at his blank silence, it always took a second to retrieve his calm and then, he’d only look content with just… waiting. Nathaniel wasn’t going to encourage him more than that, no. He was angry enough at Jean’s sheer existence—just like he had after his arrival. He didn’t want that: he didn’t want his lips on his neck and he didn’t want to need him. He didn’t want to lose control, and certainly not for something as terrible as _Jean Moreau._

Riko came back, face tight with discontentment, and the three of them straightened on their chairs as they braced himself for violence. Whatever had happened, they’d hear about it, and for a brief moment Nathaniel felt grateful he was there to brush the silence off. Sometimes giving Jean the cold shoulder felt like something difficult to do, especially when Jean’s eyes lingered shamelessly, knowing and daring and infinitely dangerous.

***

As Nathaniel had predicted, it was Jean who broke first. It happened two days later this conversation between him and Kevin, and Nathaniel had seen every bit of self-control being desperately held onto—but there was only so much one could do to keep calm, especially with the disinterested way Nathaniel ignored his existence.

Jean had grown familiar to his mood swings in fleeting, irregular patches; sometimes a minute, then a day, perhaps a week, and it never lasted too long. He didn’t remember the last time they’d really talked now, and it didn’t help that he couldn’t forget how easy it had been for Nathaniel to spot Theodora Muldani in the flock of Ravens back in the kitchen.

He slammed his locker shut with a violence Nathaniel thought had disappeared. Seeing it back was as startling as it was satisfying, and he allowed himself a short glance as if daring Jean to keep going. The show of irritation, as little as it was, had already given up too much, and Jean was in too deep to care about pride and dominance.

When he spoke up, he saw the corners of Nathaniel’s mouth stretch out in a dangerous smile. “Why her?” he asked. It was that simple, and it didn’t take long for Nathaniel to figure out who he was talking about. There weren’t many _her_ in the Nest, and Nathaniel had only seen three female players enrolled at the same time. Thea was a figure of dominance, she was precise and sharp, and she deserved her position more than most Ravens.

“Ask him,” Nathaniel shrugged. He’d lost his smile a little too quick.

It couldn’t possibly be a good sign, but Jean held on nonetheless. He’d gotten Nathaniel to answer and he wasn’t going to ignore that little piece of a miracle. “I don’t care what Kevin has to say about her. I’m asking you. Why her?” he repeated, and his tone was acrid and demanding.

Nathaniel glanced up again as he pulled on his socks. It was early in the morning and none of the Ravens were around. It granted them a tiny bubble of space and privacy.

He shrugged once more. “Tell me what’s the problem with Thea and it’ll be even quicker.” He wasn’t planning on solving whatever problem had; Nathaniel had used every last bit of kindness he’d ever felt towards Jean. Back to a comfortable selfishness he didn’t feel guilty about, words were a safe thing to experiment with. Perhaps it’d be enough to throw Jean to the edge, and he couldn’t wait to see him snap. The desperate crave for it should have been more of a warning than his dangerous tone, but Nathaniel wasn’t one to over-analyze his own self.

Jean fumbled in a frustrated silence for a minute, visibly struggling to find the right words, thoughts a terrible mess at the edge of his lips.

“I don’t like her,” he said.

“You don’t like her,” Nathaniel blankly repeated, like it was awfully disappointing. “Why so?”

“Do you?” Jean snapped back before it’d be too late.

Nathaniel didn’t answer instantly, but when he did, he got up from the bench and walked up to him, so close their breaths mingled in familiar warmth. “Do I strike you as someone who’d like Thea?” He was using Thea as a case in point, and it left him wondering if his father had ever been interested in _these things_. Seduction and whatever lied underneath it.

“You do not,” Jean spoke out painfully slow. He stressed every word like it was supposed to be a punition, and though Nathaniel couldn’t tell exactly why, it sort of worked. Jean could only watch as his face darkened, visibly huffy.

Jean would have liked to forbid him, to tell Nathaniel to not get any closer to the girls more than the disinterested, nonchalance distance he kept with everyone. The Perfect Court was the only exception to his boundaries, and Jean was the only exception to everything. It should have been enough of an answer.

“Are we done?” Nathaniel teased with a smile that didn’t shake, and Jean didn’t get to reply; already a few Ravens were rushing into the changing room and walking up to their own lockers. Nathaniel pushed himself off from Jean’s personal space and took his t-shirt off, more than a little aware of the weight Jean’s eyes were on his battered skin.

*** 

By the time all fifth-years graduated and Jean had to register to Edgar Allan, the tension between him and Nathaniel had only terrifyingly grown. It was bound to burst sooner or later, and their cold shoulder had turned into something a little more fierce than a childish grudge—less like a silence treatment and more like a public feud.

It didn’t change the unspoken rules for all that: nobody got too close to Jean and nobody got too close to Nathaniel. His dangerous temper was responsible for both, and it still startled Jean to realize their conflicts didn’t change any of it. If someone checked Jean a little too heard, Nathaniel would retaliate instantly; and if Jean tiptoed the line of Nathaniel’s patience, he got punched in return. It was a strangely fair and balanced thing, tainted by possessiveness and worry here and there. Sometimes it wasn’t more than Jean carefully glancing at Nathaniel’s healed forearm in the showers; sometimes it was as big as Nathaniel sitting in the stands to watch Jean’s practice and make sure everyone stayed in line. Riko didn’t like any of it, but Nathaniel would be dead before he’d start worrying about what Riko didn’t like.

Jean being officially on the team left an unexpected bit of emptiness behind him, and Nathaniel didn’t really know how to cope with that.

He was too stubborn to admit he was starting to miss Jean, and definitely too stubborn to let Jean in again. He’d done that plenty of times, and he couldn’t stress enough the terrible impact each of these occurrences had had on him. Sometimes at night he could still feel the ghost of Jean’s lips on the back of his neck, and it made Nathaniel’s already questionable sleeping schedules even more capricious.

It was summer break and only a few privileged had escaped back to their families and friends—to real life, Kevin liked to call it, though he’d say it with the heavy tone of sarcasm. Nothing mattered more than Exy to the three of them, and Jean didn’t much of a choice anymore. He could tell how hard he was missing his family, or perhaps was it his hometown, or his friends, if he’d had any back there—that, he couldn’t tell—but Nathaniel couldn’t truly understand. They were definitely opposite, though complimenting each other, and there would always be plenty of things staying out of reach for each other.

Tension didn’t break, but did come to a startling stop, when Jean punched his shower on. Water splashed on his tense shoulders and it didn’t take long for Nathaniel to spot the redness on his back, the trace of Riko’s racquet that would soon turn into ruthless bruises. He did like the color of Jean’s bruises, but he hated their existence as fiercely as he could, dreaming every night that he could make Riko pay back for all the times he’d hurt him.

Nathaniel’s twisted and wordless sense of protectiveness was more than requited, though, and Jean nervously glanced around them before leaning in between their respective showers. He felt the ticklish brush of Jean’s lips against his ear, though inadvertently, and it almost distracted him for his words.

The weight of them, however, dangerous and careful, snapped him back to reality. “Don’t get too close to the new guys.”

Jean retrieved his personal space instantly, and Nathaniel twisted his bare body to look above his own shoulder. The ‘new guys’ referred to the Raven freshmen, who’d moved into the dorms for summer practice after the graduates had left. Jean’s relief to see Thea leave hadn’t lasted, soon replaced by a nervous kind of alertness Nathaniel couldn’t quite understand. Not that he wasn’t distrustful by nature—he so terribly was—but he’d never quite seen Jean that worked up.

It was their second week around, and about three since they’d argued in the locker room. They hadn’t said much to each other in the meantime, and Jean was forced to attend each and every practice of the Ravens, while Nathaniel was still expected to finish his tutoring for the year. He wasn’t doing too well in Jean’s absence, but he’d made a point to attend to as many practices as he could, both to make sure Jean wouldn’t get hurt and because he thoroughly missed Exy.

The new guys weren’t that impressive, Nathaniel had thought—but looking at their bare backs for the first time, now, he started to understand. They had the smugness of people who didn’t yet know their place, and for a quiet moment he couldn’t wait for Riko to teach them. He felt like giving them an insight, but he was sore from their first training together and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Jean’s warning rang in his ears, however, and when he turned a curious gaze his way, Jean neatly ignored it. It didn’t mean he wasn’t listening, Nathaniel knew it. Jean was always listening.

“Pourquoi ça ?1” he finally asked, with the tentativeness of someone who doesn’t know where it’s safe to venture.

Jean ran hands in his hair and slicked it back against his skull. Nathaniel watched, distracted by the unforgiving black of it; wet, it looked even darker, and Nathaniel had often wondered if it was as soft as his own auburn curls.

When Jean looked back, his nose was dripping with hot water and his eyes were disapproving. “Je les ai entendus parler, tout à l’heure.” It wasn’t much of a reason, but Nathaniel knew there had to be more to it. “À propos de toi.2”

Nathaniel snorted softly, and scrubbed water on his chin. “Alors quoi, tu penses que j’ai peur d’eux ? Bien assez tôt, c’est de moi qu’ils auront peur.3” There was no doubt or fear in his voice, but it wasn’t quite enough to make Jean relax. His shoulders were a tad more tense than the usual.

He only got a quiet guess at the lingering threat when Jean allowed himself his very first once-over. It inspected Nathaniel’s body from his wet hair to his sore feet, and the look he averted afterwards was grim. No, there was no denying it: Nathaniel was terrifyingly beautiful, more than enough to spark up attention. The new guys might have been fucking around, but the possibility they weren’t was infuriating. He trusted Nathaniel to defend himself, of course—but the thought even of people thinking they could, thinking they had the liberty—no, he couldn’t bear it.

Nathaniel turned fully toward him, face deprived of the usual amusement. It mean he had all of his attention, but it also meant he was taking the upper-hand. It wasn’t the first time they’d reassured one another about something, but it was the first time Jean seemed _that_ bothered.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, a little softer than he thought he would.

It might have meant truce, he wasn’t sure; either way Jean didn’t look away from him, trying to weigh how certain Nathaniel could be about those things. He trusted him with his own life, but he didn’t trust the new Ravens. The first impression they’d had of the pair on the court had left them speechless, and Nathaniel had made sure to brutally check one or two freshmen as a welcome party, but they didn’t know as much about Nathaniel as the others did. Ignorance was bliss for an idiot.

“Don’t shower without me,” Jean warned in a whisper that barely covered the water flow. It wasn’t an order—Jean knew better than to order Nathaniel around—it was a plea, and it was far worse.

Nathaniel didn’t respond, but the frown he allowed was the closest thing to a reply.

***

Summer break got as entertaining as it could. There wasn’t much potential, not with a few Ravens missing the first month, and not with the freshmen Nathaniel couldn’t bring himself to tolerate. A part of him assumed it was because of whatever they’d said about him, as Jean had told him; but a much clever part of him knew it was because the threat could so easily extend to Jean.

They quickly made a point to not let the other out of sight for too long, and certainly not in the showers. It couldn’t possibly help that Ravens were forbidden to have relationships, distraction being the least acceptable thing in the Nest, and those who weren’t quite used to the system—and to the Ravens’ abstinence—were likely to react all but well.

They studied them carefully, using Riko’s shield in public to make sure they wouldn’t get too close; and then protecting each other alternatively as they defended their honour on the court. They were as impressive as Riko and Kevin were, in a different way—and their synchrony was even more stunning. It was enough to keep them at a safe distance, be it for now, and it was all they could ask for.

Ravens came back for summer practices, and Nathaniel, who was done with his tutoring sessions, used his free time to run the tension off or to learn a bit more French on his side. Tetsuji got more and more demanding as concurrence rose, and Edgar Allan wasn’t ready to give away its warm and steady winning position in NCAA championships. It was a welcome challenge for the Perfect Court, who thrived on getting better and better as days passed. When Nathaniel played with them, he could hardly hold back a smile, outrunning them all with adrenalin—and when Nathaniel could only witness from the home bench, he was astonished by his own breathtaking team. They were amazing.

Some nights, he’d dreamed about his first NCAA game—some nights, he’d dream about the ghost of Jean’s lips on his neck.

It never seemed to leave him completely, but he was okay with that; though he knew it was all but a good sign and that, inevitably, there would be a moment when he’d snap. For whatever reason, really.

And he did.

It was a Saturday evening and they were sprawled on one of couches, in an empty den. Summer was Exy and Exy and then a little more Exy, and they hadn’t really noticed weeks flying by. Nathaniel couldn’t bring himself to look forward to the start of the school year in a bunch of weeks—days, actually—but ending up too sore and exhausted to think about anything else at the end of the day was way too satisfying. He’d missed tiring himself on a court, and he sighed with contentment as he closed his eyes, head resting on the back of the couch.

Jean was at his sides, idly scratching his arm as he watched the sport channel. It was about Exy, of course, but Jean couldn’t bring himself to focus when their knees were touching through their sweatpants.

From afar, Nathaniel didn’t look like he’d noticed the contact—but his entire body was hot, and it had nothing to do with the usual summer heat: the dens were ventilated from the ceiling.

“I want you to be on the team,” was all Jean said, because it was the easier way to gather all his pointless thoughts. It was fair summary, in fact.

“I am,” Nathaniel said without opening his eyes.

“I mean really on the team,” Jean said. He knew his gaze was as heavy as usual, but it didn’t make Nathaniel open his eyes, either. “I mean going on rides. I mean going in hotels.”

He almost went on, but he stopped there short, and this time Nathaniel shot his eyes open. He didn’t move, but he did look back as if searching on Jean’s face for something, _anything_ , and he felt more than a little aware of their knees consciously touching each other’s. It should have been nothing, really.

“You mean getting drunk?” Nathaniel smiled, and it was cold out of necessity. There was only so much he could do to protect himself and to taste the waters. He wasn’t sure where Jean was headed, and it wasn’t something they had ever discussed.

“That, too,” he nodded. “It won’t happen again though.”

For some reason, the words troubled Nathaniel, even though he did know Jean was telling the truth. Champagne was the rare occurrence of being in a VIP room, but being on the team would simply mean _playing_ instead of watching. Nathaniel didn’t mind, but out of Jean’s mouth, those were unsettling words.

“I’ll assume you don’t like drinking,” Nathaniel said, and he knew it was half wrong but he needed to.

Confusion seeped through Jean’s expression and he quickly pushed it aside. “I like drinking just fine.”

“Don’t you hate losing control?” Nathaniel shrugged. He could easily remember the laughter Jean had allowed, that night, and how simple it was to be amused.

“Do you?” Jean talked back.

“What are we talking about?” Nathaniel frowned as he lost his patience.

Jean averted his gaze, suddenly interested in the TV program. He looked at the screen intently, but Nathaniel knew he wasn’t listening. He was searching—for words or for a way out, no one could tell. Nathaniel wished he could; it was unnerving sitting there next to him and not knowing what was going through his mind. Nathaniel was unpredictable, but Jean was illogical—and if they could communicate without a word, they were as oblivious as they could get when it came to the both of them.

“Tu m’en veux ?4” Jean finally asked without tearing his gaze away from the screen.

When he eventually turned his head, they stared each other down with all their defiance.

“No,” he replied.

Jean’s face broke a little as he took it in, most likely not expecting that answer. Uncertainty warred with confusion, and Nathaniel watched like missing a thing would be unforgivable.

“It’s been a long time,” Nathaniel reminded with a slight frown. It was a question to some extent, it was: _have you been thinking about it ever since?_ It was: _did you think I was mad all this time?_

Jean ignored it neatly. “Did you mind?”

None of them dared blink, and Nathaniel thought he’d seen Jean swallow hard. He hardly allowed himself to glance downward as Jean’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his pale throat, and somehow the question seemed pointless.

“I didn’t,” he said first, because it was the obvious answer. “I don’t,” he added, because it felt necessary.

Jean didn’t reply, and he pretended to follow Penn State’s latest season on the screen instead. It was far less interesting than Nathaniel coming undone under his gaze, a terrifying kind of opening up; but it was also less dangerous and they knew it.

Somehow their arms were brushing against each other now, so they didn’t mind that much.

***

“You shouldn’t smoke,” a stern voice let out through gritted teeth, and it was sheer disapproval.

It couldn’t be anyone else but Jean, and the relief that it wasn’t Riko only lasted a brief second, soon replaced by the irritation of being caught red-handed. Kevin was probably the last one he was willing to talk to now, with a cigarette trembling between his fingers.

“I had to,” he pathetically allowed himself.

“Really,” Kevin mocked. It was condescending and cold, but most of all, disappointed, and Nathaniel couldn’t bear the weight of it. “I thought you liked running.”

“I do,” he defended. “One cigarette doesn’t mean I’ll lose all my breath.”

“It sort of does, though,” Kevin contradicted. He wondered if Kevin had ever smoked, but it was as stupid an idea as offering him his cigarette. Kevin cared too much about Exy and champion standards to let himself go to waste, and it meant no drinking, no smoking, no junk food and no distraction. It was a sad way to live, but then again, it was only normal among the Ravens. “Where did you get those? Nobody smokes here.”

“Perhaps they do. You don’t know.” He shrugged, all too familiar with people’s tendency to keep their secrets for themselves. “Lola did,” he eventually replied.

“Lola as in—” Kevin started, but he didn’t get to finish.

“Lola as in my father’s circle, yes.” Kevin’s puzzled eyes asked a wordless question, and he smirked. “She came for a check-up on my father’s behalf the other day. It’s been months, perhaps,” he said as he idly checked his healed forearm burns. The door to the exit was slightly open, enough to let daylight in; but it was still hard to spot the burns in the half-penumbra of the stairs.

He took a thoughtful drag, wondering how is mother was.

“You should have told me,” Kevin scolded, although a little bit too gentle.

“Wouldn’t have changed a thing,” he brushed it off instantly. Lola had come and left and there was little Kevin could have done about it, certainly not with his level of anxiety. “At least she let me keep the cigarettes she burned me with.”

It was a meek consolation, but it was enough. He was only sad those burns had healed so quickly, and there was no Nathan Wesninski around to bring them back to life. Perhaps he was sick in the head, maintaining his wounds open like that, but he didn’t have many ways to cope and pain was something familiar to opt for.

“Don’t worry about cancer, it’s the first time I’m ever smoking.” He paused, thoughtful. “Not sure I like it that much.”

Kevin sat next to him on the upper step, and Nathaniel idly studied his profile. He was pretty, oh he was, a champion born to be great. The photographers sure did love him, so did the journalists, and that was without even mentioning his fans. It used to make him smile in sheer mockery, considering the endlessness of Kevin’s fame and beauty, a dream too good to be true—not it wasn’t that funny anymore. He didn’t know why exactly, but he was pretty sure it had something to do with maturity. Knowing too much, perhaps.

He felt Kevin’s eyes searching for the burns, so he looked away. He didn’t want to find pity, or anger, or disappointment, or whatever Kevin still had in store for him. Kevin had seen his scars enough times that he should have understood it didn’t make any difference.

“I talked to Thea, you know,” Kevin said unexpectedly.

“Did you,” Nathaniel mocked, though he felt truly surprised.

“Way before you told me to, in fact.” It was even more astounding, but he didn’t reply. “We agreed not to talk about it, to no one.”

“I’m not no one, then,” he deduced with a cold smile.

“No,” Kevin confirmed. It was meant to be an irritating joke, and he hadn’t expected Kevin to admit it so easily. He wasn’t sure what to do with it—at least, he let go of his father’s smile: Kevin deserved better. “I’m not really sure about that. It sounds stupid.”

“What does?” he asked blankly, the same way he answered Jean when he’d talk about uninteresting things.

“You,” Kevin sighed. “Being my friend.”

It wasn’t much of a confession, not to normal people anyways—but they knew better. Ravens weren’t supposed to have friends. Their pairs were purely strategic and profitable. Kevin and him being friends wasn’t right, and it surely wasn’t banal.

Kevin didn’t need to say _best friend_ for the words to linger in between them. None of them had any friend; having one made all the possible difference.

Nathaniel didn’t try to deny the twisted and nonchalant kind of affection they had for one another, nor did he return the confession. Kevin knew better than to expect anything out of him, but his silence was enough of a confirmation that it left him feeling lighter.

“One day we’ll be out of here together. We’ll be Court.”

“We will,” Nathaniel nodded calmly, and took another drag.

*** 

He should have known something was wrong when he’d let his mother cross his mind the day before. Kevin’s conversation had been distracting, enough at least that he hadn’t thought about her much more afterwards. It was harder to ignore now that he was throwing the sheets out of the way and running to the bathroom, tripping and smashing his knees against the tiles as he grabbed the toilets.

If the violence of his awakening wasn’t enough, the sound of his dry-heaving sure was, and Jean rushed to the doorframe with sleepy eyes and a tense expression of mixed worry and curiosity. He watched from afar as Nathaniel choked on burning bile, and it took another minute for him to finally decide it was okay.

He sat on the cold floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, closing heavy eyelids as though to rest.

“What happened?” Jean asked, because he knew better than to ask if he was fine.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Are you sick?” Jean asked tentatively as he got closer, arms crossed.

“No,” Nathaniel breathed out. “Not me.”

Jean didn’t understand, at first—but it didn’t take long. Mid-morning practice Tetsuji got a call and disappeared, leaving the team in the hands of the assistant coaches. When he came back, his face looked just as stern and unbothered, but he stepped onto court and gestured Nathaniel to approach. Needless to say Jean moved in the same breath, but they let him, and the three of them left the court to Tetsuji’s wide office.

He didn’t even have to tell him.

“My mother,” Nathaniel deduced grimly.

Tetsuji’s nod was calm and measured, but Jean looked back between them as if they didn’t speak the same language. He was wise enough not to interrupt, though, and the side-glance Nathaniel gave him was far too shaken up.

“Listen to me,” Tetsuji started without taking his eyes off Nathaniel. “You will be given until midnight and then I expect you to be back on the court. If you know where your place is, you won’t let things distract you from the game.”

Nathaniel didn’t think his mother was much of a distraction, but he nodded nonetheless. “Yes, master.”

Someone escorted them to the exit, and when Jean stopped before a black car, Nathaniel could only frown.

“They gave you one,” he deduced uselessly as he watched the plate. It was Jean’s year and jersey number. He didn’t have much time to waste, however, so he got in the passenger seat as Jean slid behind the steering wheel.

“I’m part of the team,” was all Jean said.

“I didn’t know you knew how to drive,” Nathaniel outbid, and it sounded like an accusation. He wasn’t used to discovering things about Jean, not without Jean telling him first.

It did make sense, however. Jean had been missing more than once lately, due to team practice and administrative interviews and medical checkups and so much more he hadn’t bothered thinking about. All Ravens had a car, though it was only lent, and Jean would be no exception. Now he realized it was the first time they were leaving the Nest since New-York, and it left him feeling dizzy.

“I learned in France. They made me pass a few courses to update the license, but it’s pretty much the same. _Then_ they gave me one.”

Nathaniel fell silent as Jean pulled out of the garage. It’s not until they drove out of Evermore’s territory that they talked again.

“What happened with your mother?” he asked, because he hadn’t gotten the least information in Tetsuji’s office. Nathaniel was perspicuous and alert enough to pick up on the smallest things, which probably made him somewhat tolerable to Tetsuji, and probably also explained the unusual exception. If he was allowing them out of the Nest for almost a day, it had to be something bad.

“She’s dead,” he shrugged. The brutality of the confession was so stunning Jean’s knuckles blanched on the steering wheel. “Soon enough, at least. The doctors don’t think she’ll get through this, so here we are.”

“Did they call?”

“Lola did.”

“Did Lola do this?” he asked again, though a little louder, anger seeping through. He hadn’t liked her very much the first time—knowing she’d hurt Nathaniel’s mother wouldn’t help things.

Nathaniel knew better. Oh, he knew better. “Lola isn’t allowed to touch her.” It was all he allowed, and Jean didn’t pry.

It took around five hours to get to Baltimore, and they stopped only once to go to the restroom and buy lunch and coffee. Wandering in the aisles with Nathaniel only was a sensibly pleasurable thing, and it tasted like freedom—getting back in the car with sandwiches almost felt surreal. Jean wondered what they could have been in other life; nonchalant teenagers breaking the rules, perhaps. Then again, Evermore was the only thing keeping them together, be it through Jean’s transfer from France or the pair-based system and their room arrangements. It was sheer luck as much as it was a curse, but Jean couldn’t bring himself to hate any of that when he had Nathaniel.

Jean called one of the assistant coaches when they got to the hospital, and it brought Nathaniel enough time to gather information at the front desk. He was given a room number and signed off on a paper to assert his visit. Then Jean walked up to him and they stood side by side in clean silence as the elevator doors closed before them.

Mary Hatford’s body, which had once been a familiar, ruthless thing, was only bruises and cuts. There was little left of her anymore, and Nathaniel, though he didn’t flinch at the sight, took a quiet minute to get used to the sight before stepping any closer. He knew too well what had happened to her, just like it’d happened to him countless times. The difference was he’d never been brought to the hospital, his mother patching him up as best as she could and hiding the damage with makeup and fierce warnings. Sometimes it was after Lola’s knife fight practice, sometimes it was after his father’s outbursts.

“Is she…” Jean asked, voice broken. He stood by the door as though he wouldn’t dare disturbing her. It was absurd, but it softened the edge of Nathaniel’s anger—Jean’s French side left him respectful and polite, a little too well-mannered towards someone who was a breath away from death. It was endearing despite the circumstances, Nathaniel thought.

“Not yet.” He could tell out of habit. She was breathing, but barely; it was only a matter of time before she’d succumb to her wounds. Surely, she didn’t look good—but Nathaniel knew how worse it must be on the inside.

Jean sat in a chair by the TV, far enough that it gave Nathaniel space to think and breathe. A nurse came at some point, explaining the extent of Mary’s damage and how irreparable most of it was. She vaguely summed up the circumstances of her hospitalization, and Nathaniel guessed his father had found a way out of this. There was a chance she’d ended up here as a message for him, but there was another, just as likely, that he’d beaten her a little too heavy and she’d managed to call the emergency services. She didn’t need to be punished any more than that: clearly, she wasn’t going to last the day.

He wondered, idly, what Lola would have done with Mary’s body if she’d died before getting her hands on a phone. Burned in acid, or chopped and buried perhaps. He couldn’t tell.

“Who did this?” Jean asked quite seriously when the door closed behind the nurse.

He was looking at the door, but his voice was filled with a distressed Nathaniel didn’t want to hear. Not that it bothered him—he simply didn’t like Jean getting closer and closer to the violent ever-living fear of being Nathaniel Wesninski.

“My father,” he simply said, because there was no point hiding it anymore.

“And he got away with it?”

The look he gave Jean was half-stern, half-scared. “What did you think? Terrible people get away with terrible things, of course. That’s what life is.”

“Not where I come from,” Jean mumbled even though it was half a lie and they knew it. Marseille wasn’t any different than Baltimore; Jean’s parents had simply been slightly more banal, slightly less interesting people than Nathaniel’s. They could only blame bad luck.

“Get over it,” he said, but the coldness of his own words didn’t feel right.

He didn’t stroke his mother’s hands or kiss her forehead. He simply sat there next to her, watching the bruises like he could memorize them all. When a monitor started to beep, Jean got up—but Nathaniel stayed where he was, unexpectedly calm, as doctors came rushing in.

There was little anyone could have done to save Mary Hatford, and Nathaniel had accepted that. It’s only when they pulled in Jean’s parking spot that Nathaniel let out a terrifying noise, something broken and repressed and shaky.

Jean stopped the engine and turned to him with a concerned stare. They were a little bit earlier than midnight, which left them another short moment of peace before they’d have to go underground again. Watching the sun set as Jean drove had been somewhat soothing, but now that they were back at Evermore, the reality of his mother’s death hit him harsh and brutal.

“Nathaniel,” Jean tried, though he was almost sure Nathaniel would try and scare him off.

He only put a trembling hand to his mouth, and the whines it choked were terrible. It was unbearable to watch, powerless, as Nathaniel came undone in a far too different way he usually did with him.

“Fuck, Nathaniel,” Jean pleaded softly. He didn’t know what to do, truly, it hurt incredibly.

When Nathaniel glanced back at him, holding his worried stare, his eyes were wet with angry tears. His face, an usual unwavering barrier of boldness, was tense as though holding itself up in broken pieces. Jean reached out without thinking, grabbing the back of Nathaniel’s neck in a warm and reassuring palm. He was trying to haul him back to reality—to their reality, if the other one was too much.

Nathaniel didn’t try to look away, nor did he push Jean away. He simply sat there as tears rolled down his cheeks, salty and scorching with fury. He was going to kill his father, oh, he was. One day he was.

Jean grabbed his clenched fist with his free hand, and he uncurled it to bring his knuckles to his lips. Nathaniel watched closely through the blurry filter of his tears, and the softness of Jean’s lips on his fingers stopped the tears—but it didn’t start the pounding in his chest.

***

The Ravens’ first game was Away, and there was little more Nathaniel needed to follow them. It was partly for the thrill of Exy and partly for Jean and his codependency, and he was going to fight for it with everything he had.

“Please,” Nathaniel growled as Kevin poured himself a cup of coffee. “He listens to you.”

“The master listens to you way more than he does me. Your whining is pointless.”

“What if he says no,” Nathaniel asked.

“What if he says yes,” Kevin contradicted.

Nathaniel didn’t budge, and eventually, Kevin sighed.

“I’ll accompany you but that’s all. Don’t think I’m going to stand up for this. I’m sure there’s a good reason for you to stay here.”

“I won’t benefit from staying here all alone. Live exy is incomparable and Jean’s not going anywhere without me.”

Kevin observed in silence, gaze searching. He’d never understood the intricate link between Nathaniel and his backliner, and in fact, he had never really tried to. It was only painfully obvious now that they’d grown too attached to split, and Kevin shivered. He couldn’t imagine being separated from Riko for too long.

“Not being able to send you onto the court to balance this mediocrity is going to kill him,” Kevin said. It was nonchalant, but it was his best attempt at humor. It was true: Nathaniel being the best backliner Tetsuji had, having him benched and underage would be terribly unnerving. It left him feeling oddly satisfied.

Instead of heading straight for Tetsuji, Kevin and him opted for trying Riko first. It was a less unstable choice, that much is true, but it felt like a necessary one, and perhaps a sufficient training for his uncle. Riko was cruel and obsessed with power, and he wasn’t willing to make things easier for anyone—except if it made things easier for him, too. That, Nathaniel had understood, and for some reason, his presence with the Ravens seemed like it would.

“Riko,” Nathaniel said flatly, though it sounded all the way like a warning. He smiled vaguely, looking a little more like Nathan than he did himself—something he’d come to realize Riko didn’t like. It was fear, or recognition perhaps, deep deep in Riko’s eyes.

“Why would I tell my uncle to grant you that much?” For a moment, he thought like Riko would mention Nathaniel’s mother, the exception Tetsuji had already more than kindly made. He couldn’t yet bring himself to understand what had pushed him to do that, and he hoped it was trust, or maybe a flash of respect for the Wesninskis, even though Nathaniel felt every bit like a Moriyama.

“It’ll benefit you enough,” Kevin slipped in between them, and Nathaniel slid a curious look his way. He hadn’t expected Kevin to intervene, much less to help. Bowing in front of Riko was enough of a bad habit he hadn’t counted on Kevin for anything. “Nathaniel keeps the team steady.”

At that, Nathaniel frowned, but Kevin ignored him with neat long-practice. It had gotten Riko’s attention, though—it was their first game of the season and though the three of them had an unshakable faith in the Ravens’ potential, an easy win was still better than a rough one.

Nathaniel couldn’t say he had noticed. He never really cared about the little things, much less if he had to step back to get a glimpse. He was all rough and tough, all spontaneity that screamed danger and self-control. His extremes kept the team on the edge during trainings, and his violence would keep them in check; but in a game against opponents, both could be insanely fueling and Kevin knew that. It was handicap enough that Nathaniel was too young to play, and it felt such a waste of potential it tasted like injustice—but bringing their weapon to the court, even from afar, would no doubt make a difference.

Not just on the Ravens, that much Kevin had pieced together. Nathaniel’s reputation and his third place in Riko’s games made him publicly known, and though nobody in the public sight knew the little things about Nathaniel’s story—his father, the mafia, all these secrets Nathaniel painstakingly kept out of Jean’s reach—they knew enough that they _loved_ him. Though Nathaniel was numb with euphoria whenever they attended an official event, he couldn’t bring himself to understand the affection, not from strangers anyways, but it didn’t matter. Even those who feared him loved him still, even for the sake of it all. Nathaniel Wesninski was a mouthy, dangerous brat and he guaranteed a spectacle wherever he went.

Nobody was patient enough to wait for him to step on the court, including himself, and bringing him along even just to the benches would be electrifying. Riko could easily sense the crowd’s reaction to his Perfect Court being reunited in plain sight, cheekbones tattoos asserting both power and skill, things the Ravens stood for unwaveringly.

He took a minute to think about it, studying Nathaniel’s tight expression and Kevin’s more nonchalant one. It was surprising enough that Kevin had felt it necessary to intervene, which proved the theory to be interesting and beneficial for them all, as Kevin rarely abandoned his exy-related bias. Then he nodded, all but softly: not in promise, but in acknowledgment.

“I will talk to my uncle,” he concluded, but slid Nathaniel a careful gaze. It was warning and dominance, it was _don’t make me regret this or you’ll regret it too_. Nathaniel knew the rules, he’d practically been raised at their sides. They were his brothers whether he wanted them or not to be, and he couldn’t think of better allies to convince Tetsuji to bring him along.

It took hardly five minutes for the three of them to convince him, but Kevin and Nathaniel neatly stepped aside and let Riko do the talking. It wasn’t that Tetsuji had a particular affection for his nephew, and it wasn’t that Riko was particularly well-practiced at being persuasive without violence, but the presence of the three had raised enough interest in him that he listened.

He nodded, eventually, and with a few more questions directed in Nathaniel’s way, that was it.

Rules were given: Nathaniel wouldn’t talk to the press, no matter how good and _wanted_ the Ravens were by publicity; he wouldn’t put a single foot on the court; he wouldn’t approach the opponents, either, and Tetsuji clearly showed he didn’t trust Nathaniel to be all but antagonizing in public; and if he came, he might as well help the assistant coaches during mid-break—there were plenty of things to do, between serving the players Gatorade and water, pep talks and pointing out outrageous mistakes and opportunities for them to get better next serve.

He agreed to it all, foreign to professionally providing advice but skilled enough that it wouldn’t be a problem. Most of the assistant coaches held a subtle yet unquestionable affection for him and Kevin both, which they couldn’t really explain but didn’t mind. And though Nathaniel made a point not to say it, he’d be able to stay at Jean’s sides—and that was worth all the quid pro quo in the world.

***

He was practically buzzing by the time Friday came. Jean had mistaken it for anxiety, and it’s only when he caught him stuffing his duffel bag with a clean t-shirt, a notepad, a water bottle and an exy magazine that he understood his worry had been misguided.

“Are you coming?” he asked, and the uncertainty in his voice left him thinking he feared the answer. That much he could understand—getting one’s hopes up was as dangerous as it was easy.

“I am,” he simply confirmed as he zipped his bag closed. He slung the strap on his shoulder and turned to Jean, who had gathered enough things for the trip himself, with the added tension of playing for the first time in a few hours.

It was barely noticeable, but Nathaniel had months of practice when it came to closely studying Jean—something flashed on his face, relief perhaps, and it disappeared just as soon. It made Nathaniel feel a little lighter knowing that, no matter that Jean would keep quiet. They didn’t really need to say these things, anyways; it was palpable between the two, and Nathaniel cared more about staying at Jean’s sides than helping the Ravens. Their win wouldn’t be his win, no matter how proud he was to belong to the Ravens, and the adrenalin rush of watching exy being played from up close was numbing, but so was Jean’s proximity.

He stepped a little too close and Nathaniel let him. They stared each other down like they were trying to see through something, and finally he saw the corner of Jean’s mouth twitch in the ghost of a smile. Nathaniel tilted his head, satisfied.

“I suppose you should thank me, now.” When Jean raised an inquiring and distrustful brow, Nathaniel flashed a terrible smile. “You would have missed me too much.”

Jean’s snort was instant, but none of them bothered denying it. They didn’t really have a choice, and they hadn’t really wanted any of that. Codependency was a dangerous and frightening thing, and they were only willing to put up with it because they attracted each other like magnets. It didn’t mean they got along incredibly well, and it didn’t mean they never loathed their forced closeness, but they could communicate in a simple glance in the middle of a crowd, and knowing the other was there somewhere close was a terrifying reassurance.

It felt a little like home, but Nathaniel would never admit it.

If Nathaniel was impatient, it was nothing compared to the rest of the Ravens. His presence had smoothed the edges of Jean’s anxiety, but the crowd of black and red was humming with strain and pride. Nathaniel stood to the side, waiting for the coaches to load exy gear onto the buses, and Tetsuji appeared at the very last moment. He gave Nathaniel a knowing glance, which he responded to with an obedient nod. Jean didn’t miss a thing, but he kept quiet.

The Ravens scattered around in the three different buses, well-practiced to being dispatched, and Jean and Nathaniel unquestioningly stayed shoulder to shoulder, walking to their usual bus for their usual last bench. When they stepped onto it, their last row was still clearly available, though all rows before that were taken by one or two.

For some reason, it made Nathaniel beam with pride—knowing the Ravens had picked up on that and willingly saved a seat for them. It was respect or it was fear, he didn’t quite know, but he liked it either way. They slumped on the bench and put their duffel bags to the ground, sighing in advance from the trip.

Their knees touched, but they didn’t point it out. Though both of them peeped, none made any move to get further away.

“You convinced him,” Jean deduced after a minute. He was looking at their knees, and Nathaniel knew exactly what he was referring to. It was Tetsuji’s piercing look outside, before he’d stepped on the first bus where Riko and Kevin always seated.

Nathaniel turned his head in Jean’s direction, and the motion made Jean look away from their touching knees and up to Nathaniel’s face against his will. He could hardly resist the power his chilly blue eyes had over him and he knew it.

“Why?” he simply asked when Nathaniel didn’t give any answer.

Nathaniel squinted faintly, searching for the right words. There were so many reasons to explain it—but only one really stood out. He shrugged. “We’re in this together.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Jean muttered, and they knew it was all but a lie.

They spent a good part of the trip watching half the freshmen from afar, clearly disliking their presence on the bus but reassured by the fact they hadn’t come any closer in weeks. It wasn’t like Nathaniel hadn’t a knife constantly hidden somewhere, though, and Jean couldn’t feel any safer than at his sides. He wondered how he’d get through their opponent’s stadium security, but when he could feel Nathaniel’s every move as their shoulders brushed and arms touched, there was little _he_ was willing to worry about.

***

The Coyotes’ stadium didn’t have Evermore’s intimidating color scheme or size, but _being there_ was just enough to snap back to reality. Every Raven beamed with pride and arrogance, filing out of the buses with the intention of staring everyone down. They were escorted to the visiting team’s locker room, given a summary of decorum rules, be it exy or the state they were expected to leave the locker room in; and though all assistant coaches feigned interest, Tetsuji hardly nodded.

“Let’s go,” one of the coaches snapped as the aid disappeared to go and get the Coyotes’ roster. Ravens followed the coach to the male and female lockers, and Nathaniel stepped aside with Coach Williams.

It was a terrible and unpleasant thing to watch them flow into the lockers and be expected not to follow, but he swallowed back his discontentment and imagined his first game when it’d be his turn, too.

Nathaniel waited in the corridor until they were done, not wanting to venture himself on the inner court without Jean. No matter what they’d said or done, he didn’t feel okay walking around alone, much less if he could avoid it and simply wait for Jean instead. It was humiliating at times, but they understood—all Ravens understood.

Jean came out of the lockers a reasonable time later in Raven attire, and Nathaniel took a second to examine him. He was pretty, oh, he really was—black hair struggling not to fall back against his forehead, grey eyes piercing no matter how soft he’d stare. Saying the Ravens’ colors suited him would be an understatement, and he entertained the familiar pride that always came with his team; _his_ team.

They walked to the inner court without really waiting for the others, and Nathaniel, though he didn’t look up to the public once, easily noticed the way they screamed a little louder. Spotting a Raven was an easy thing—spot two of them, especially ones with infamous cheekbone tattoos was even easier. Shouts screeched all around them, echoing back and forth as euphoric eyes studied their every move, and they exchanged a knowing look. It was pride and excitement, but there was something else, too, and Nathaniel picked up on it instantly.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid,” he growled—and though it didn’t sound like it, it was Nathaniel’s encouragement.

Jean stared back, hard and cold like he mostly did, the affection he held for Nathaniel only ever visible in the little things. It was the proximity of their bodies, shoulders so close they touched for no reason; it was the way they’d struggle to look away from one another; the way they’d give each other privileges they would never give to anyone else. Perhaps Nathaniel’s privilege was to be allowed to assume Jean Moreau could be afraid. If it was something logical and mundane, it wasn’t something Ravens were expected to be, and Jean would have started a fight if it’d been anyone else.

“Does it matter?” he asked, because he didn’t want to say yes.

“No,” Nathaniel said flatly, heart bubbling in his chest when he shifted his gaze from Jean to the court. He couldn’t hold it back—the excruciating need to be there, to follow Jean, to run and bodycheck and intimidate and _win_. “You don’t have a choice.”

Nathaniel’s words were never meant to reassure, they were truth as it was—and he accompanied with the gesture, pointing at other Ravens quietly gathering on the inner court a few steps away. Their fight song was blared by Edgar Allan’s team band, but none of them really looked like they cared. No one waved at the public, no one even hardly looked up.

Jean glanced at Nathaniel, heart pounding in his chest when the assistant coaches called the team out to send them on for warmups. So much emotion in Jean’s eyes was dizzying, and Nathaniel tried to ignore it as best as he could. He returned the gaze, blank yet _knowing_ , like his eyes could tell things his lips could not.

“It’s your moment of glory.” Nathaniel pointed his chin at the flock of black and red, and Jean reluctantly walked away. He didn’t look back, though Nathaniel stared—in fact, Nathaniel didn’t look away once from then on. He couldn’t. He simply couldn’t.

There simply was too much for him to look away, and the crowd knew it. The Ravens as a whole were terrifying, moving in one big motion as though every move had been prepared or anticipated; and Jean, even on his own, was breathtaking. His powerful aura—the way he moved—bodies sent flying way before they could even reach the goal zone—the crowd losing its mind whenever Jean stole the ball and sent it back to his strikers—the way the score went up and up and up like nobody could stop them: everything was a cold shiver down his spine, borne out of fascination and awe. It left Nathaniel speechless that Jean could play even better on a game night than he did in practice, but it also left him sick to his stomach, vibrating with the irrepressible need to play at his sides by the end of the game.

The game ended with 18-5 for Edgar Allan, and though the Coyotes had given up on trying to best them by mid-play, they were more beaming than the Ravens in the end. Perhaps was it because where the Coyotes’ smiles were exhaustion and effort, the Ravens’ smiles were all teeth and danger—Riko, Kevin, Tetsuji and even Jean, all radiating pride and something dark and arrogant.

Riko being the new official team captain meant he’d handle the press tonight, and everywhere Riko went, Kevin followed. They handled questions easily, plastered with long-practiced smiles that were only half a lie; the overconfidence seeping through was genuine, and it thrilled Nathaniel. He’d always followed the Ravens’ advance in championships, more interested in his future team than he was of anyone else, but now that Riko, Kevin and Jean all were on the team in their turn, there was something incredibly rapturous about it. Nathaniel dug his hands down the front pocket of his black Edgar Allan hoodie, more than content when Riko fed the press smug smiles and sly responses. He didn’t particularly like Riko; but it was something new and strange to feel like he _belonged_ in the middle of a crowd, wanting Riko to succeed and shine and overcome as much as he did Jean. The three of them were more than his family, now—they were his reputation: past, future and present. Their victories were his.

He stepped to the door as Jean came to the inner court, sweaty and a little out of breath, and Jean obediently handed his gloves, racquet and helmet when Nathaniel held out expecting palms. It was easy to pick up on the way fans screamed a little louder with each interaction, and it left Nathaniel buzzing with pride. Jean was _his_. He was Jean’s. And there, in the middle of the stadium for everyone to see, it was unquestionable and irrevocable—it was evidence, it was truth.

Both of them stood to the side as they listened distractedly to whatever Riko and Jean had to say to the press. Questions remained boringly plain: Riko’s thoughts on being the Captain, if he had any fears and nervousness—he didn’t—, what he’d retained from tonight’s game, what did he think of the Perfect Court’s new addition’s performance, and they even asked for a message directed to the fans regarding their next upcoming game. Most questions concerned the four of them, though—and Nathaniel couldn’t help but smirk when Riko congratulated his Perfect Court on live television. Nathaniel hadn’t even played—yet somehow nobody questioned his skills, and nobody ever would. He wore that tattoo like a second tattoo, he showed it off and held it close to his heart, and the chilly smile splitting is face in two was dangerous enough that _he was there_ and _he belonged_.

Nathaniel the crazy one, Nathaniel the violent one, Nathaniel the redhead with the chilly blue eyes burning worlds to the ground with the flash of a smile. He was beautiful and he was terrible, perhaps the most dangerous weapon the Ravens would ever have. It was hard to tell who anticipated Nathaniel’s official presence among the team more: Nathaniel himself, or everyone else. Though Jean didn’t say a word, Nathaniel knew him well enough to know that’s exactly what he was thinking about, and it was overwhelming.

In the lounge as assistant coaches gathered around Tetsuji to exchange notes and discuss the important points before sending their Ravens back on the buses, highlights of the game came on the TV screen on replay—Ravens and Ravens and Ravens everywhere, crushing their opponents with bare hands. They summed up the game for the southern district, after that, and Nathaniel watched absentmindedly and uninterested as the Palmetto State Foxes won their own game.

“They’re mediocre,” Jean commented as he stopped behind Nathaniel. He could feel his warm breath on his neck and shivered, though a little too pleased. He remembered his lips back in the hotel long time ago, and swallowed dry, a bit too distracted.

Nathaniel didn’t look away from the TV, grim with indignation as he agreed, “they are.”

***

Jean’s attention perked up when his hotel room door opened without any warning. Nathaniel rushed in, which was a little less surprising, and he shook a magnetic card in the air before Jean could ask any question. (Most likely, he’d pretended to have lost his own at the registering desk, and obedient staff had unquestioningly responded to his fury by providing him another one.)

“You—” Nathaniel started, anger and frustration warring on his tense features.

“I trouble you greatly,” Jean took his guess with an arrogant smile when Nathaniel didn’t go on. It was enough that Nathaniel looked up, and frowned just as quickly. Oh he didn’t like when Jean would get cocky; the twist of his lips was satisfied and mocking, and he couldn’t escape it.

“Is that a problem?” Nathaniel asked, just to be sure.

“You _are_ a problem,” Jean corrected as he got closer.

He walked slowly, cautiously perhaps, as not to scare him off or trigger a violent streak—but Nathaniel felt like Jean was coming at him full-force. It was unstoppable and terrifying, yet he let him, and when he stopped a breath away from him, it felt all too familiar.

“Okay,” Nathaniel accepted. He’d always known he was.

But perhaps did it feel different, this time; like he was less of a trouble and more of a dilemma. It wasn’t anything Jean could solve or get rid of, but it was something they both found forcing its way in their thoughts, asking for attention, asking for closeness, asking for _anything_ it could ask for.

Jean slid his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, and Nathaniel let out a tired sigh as he leaned his forehead against Jean’s torso. It was a solid and strong thing, and left him feeling protected—though Nathaniel didn’t need protection from anyone, much less Jean Moreau.

It was a minute before Jean freed his hands, and when he did, he slid them to Nathaniel’s cheeks. He forced his head backwards and cupped his face, studying it carefully before brushing their noses together. It was awful how taller than him Jean actually was, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when he felt like an unyielding, hell-bent thing.

Their breaths bumped into each other, mixing with warmth and disorder. This was the closest they’d ever been to one another, but it felt horridly natural, like perhaps that was exactly where they were supposed to be. It was a terrible thing that such a _somewhere_ was right in Jean’s arms, but he’d get furious about it later. For now, all that mattered was the frontiers of Jean’s world, all resolving around Nathaniel himself.

Nathaniel lifted bold and shameless hands to Jean’s jaw, and they held each other’s faces in silence, foreheads content with just resting against one another.

“Don’t dig your heels in,” Jean whispered.

“Okay,” Nathaniel accepted again.

“Stay,” Jean pushed his luck.

And Nathaniel didn’t have it in him to fight, “Okay.”

Breaths steadied and quickened before steadying again, meanwhile hands slid up and down cheeks and necks. Jean plunged long fingers into Nathaniel’s messy curls, and Nathaniel could hardly hold back a tired sigh at the distinct pleasure. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had stroked his hair, and if someone ever had at all, it had nothing on Jean’s unexpected gentleness. He knew Jean was all but a soft thing, and he knew that he was only for him.

Nathaniel’s head felt so light, trapped between Jean’s hands in his hair and Jean’s torso holding him still—closing his eyes was a simple thing to do, then, and it left him going numb with sleepiness. His own hands fell at Jean’s hips and pulled on the t-shirt like a child would, thumbs brushing his stomach like it was the only thing keeping his arms from falling flat against his sides.

They took their time, taking in every smell and every bit of body heat, not really knowing when they’d be able to do this again. For boys who didn’t have a choice but to put up with one another, it was misplaced dread, but it was okay.

Nathaniel muttered harsh things in a low breath when Jean parted—but it didn’t take long. He pulled the sheets free, turned the lights off, and pulled on Nathaniel’s hoodie to bring him to his bed. They didn’t take sides, Jean slipping under the sheets and Nathaniel simply following, both craving physical closeness a little too much to stay apart more than a second. They trapped each other in their embrace, and where Jean rested his head on the pillow, Nathaniel rested his where he could feel his heartbeat.

He smiled when it raced a little and he picked up on it.

Jean visibly tried to complain—but he yawned mid-word, and it only made Nathaniel smile a bit more.

“Fucking sleep,” he growled in Nathaniel’s hair. It smelled of coconut, vanilla and sunlight, it smelled like home.

Nathaniel Wesninski wasn’t one to let people order him around, but for once, he let it slide and obeyed. Closing his eyes was easy—drifting into a deep and comfortable sleep was easier, and that night Jean kept the nightmares away.


	6. And in the middle of my chaos, there was you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding, coping mechanisms, bloody lips and cold silences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I'm so far gone. Listen to [that](https://youtu.be/tGr_cyThHkc) while reading the last scene. Same as always, your comments and support give me life, Jean is a bb, and I'm [wesninskids](http://wesninskids.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

It was getting easier with the days to bend Nathaniel and Jean’s fierce resistance using each other. Of course it would be; they shared every victory and every loss, why would pain be any different? But there was more to it, oh, there was so much more to it. And as days passed Kevin grew anxious, eyes alert and shoulders tense, picking up on the little things he was certain Riko couldn’t miss. It was unmistakable, and far more dangerous than the brotherly, dysfunctional bond between Riko and him—it was something _else_ , something that could stir chaos and start wars.

At first he thought they were dangerous for the rest—for them, for the world—put a weapon and a storm together and they’ll give you the apocalypse. There’s no guilt for the ruthless.

Kevin had a distinct, terrible feeling, though he wasn’t sure why—and whenever he tried to get Nathaniel to understand, the boy would push him away with the familiar scent of violence. Kevin was too smart to push his own palm against sharpened knives, he knew better. Waiting, though, eyes anxious like he was expecting the world to burst into flames at any given moment, was probably worse.

“Don’t make that face,” Jean said in a low whisper. It wasn’t mockery and it wasn’t annoyance; it was nervousness, and it didn’t help Nathaniel’s already terrible case. “You’ll drive Riko mad if you don’t tone that virulence down a bit.”

The look he gave him was proof he didn’t care what Jean had to say about what Nathaniel looked like, certainly not with his brows knotted tight and his eyes a dangerous shade of blue. It was the calm before the storm, Jean thought, and he slid a careful gaze towards Kevin, watching from the other side of the room.

“I’m serious,” Jean growled like he was being difficult. And he was—he truly was.

Somehow Nathaniel had gotten out of bed on the wrong side, and it was doomed to go downhill from then. Jean couldn’t help but tense every time Tetsuji and Riko brushed past, expecting them to linger and defy Nathaniel’s terrible fearlessness. It was a thing to admire, oh it was; but somewhere like Evermore, it also was something to die for. Jean thought he didn’t want to die for him.

“So am I,” Nathaniel said, and he had no interest in talking any further. He stepped on the treadmill and parted his tight lips, barely enough to breathe through the run—Jean stood to the side, watching for a minute as he sped up. It couldn’t be good. It couldn’t be good.

He turned away still, searching for a place in the circuit of machines. Kevin was still watching from where he was assisting Riko on the bench press, and they shared the knowing look of disapproval. Needless to say Kevin and Jean didn’t talk much, mostly because they rarely ever talked at all, and then because they didn’t have anything to say to one another. Nathaniel, though—it was the invisible and frightening link that seemed to pull the Ravens closer together. It wasn’t exactly team spirit and it assuredly wasn’t friendship in any way, but it was close enough that it worked. Perhaps that was why his presence at the Ravens’ opening game had been tolerated and allowed, and perhaps was that, too, the reason why Jean had the feeling that when Nathaniel was off, everything followed.

It didn’t take long for the Ravens to pick up on his mood, and something snapped in the atmosphere. It felt like watching a virus spread at horrifying speed, and Kevin put all his efforts to stay far from it as long as possible. They couldn’t escape it, however, and soon enough it was bound to explode in their face like acid.

They stepped out of the gym sweaty and sore, and Jean kept an eye on Nathaniel when he pushed his way through the strong bodies, almost offered a clear path on their free will. It was stunning to witness the effect Nathaniel had on his teammates, except Riko, perhaps, who never seemed to even flinch—bar the times Nathaniel’s smile would split his face in two, the spotless reproduction of his father’s cruelty sending chills down Riko’s spine. Jean couldn’t blame him. Sometimes, even _he_ had a hard time staring Nathaniel down. Him being two years younger didn’t make things easier, neither did the fact that they needed each other to survive.

In what ways, Jean wasn’t sure. Riko had long understood by now, and that’s exactly why he’d used it to make them fall in line—Jean’s health was at stake when Nathaniel would go too far, and Nathaniel’s punishment, though passively accepted and later unforgiven still, would soon escalate if Jean refused to obey.

It wasn’t too hard for Jean to bend. He’d been brought up under strict smiles and hands, but he’d never been abused, not the way Nathaniel had been anyways. His willingness to comply was innate, conditioned into his flesh, like saying _thank you_ and _goodbye_. It was automatic and he could hardly hold it back. It didn’t make Jean a soft thing for all that, and it’d taken more than weeks for Riko to manage to get him to listen. If Jean hadn’t given up on resistance like Kevin absolutely had, he’d lowered his chin a little—and it was mostly Nathaniel’s fault.

Not that Nathaniel would ever encourage him to let Riko win, no, though sometimes Nathaniel would swiftly order Jean to make things easier for the both of them and bend the knees just a little. But Nathaniel—Nathaniel, his very existence, the fact that he was even _there_ with _him_ —oh, the mere thought of causing him more pain than he’d already been through was sickening, and Jean couldn’t stomach it.

It didn’t matter how many times Nathaniel had told him he didn’t care, or how many times he’d harshly said he didn’t owe Jean anything for all that. At first, Nathaniel had figured it was a way of buying his loyalty, of making sure Nathaniel would esteem him even a bit—then, as Jean’s eyes had started to linger more than his natural nonchalance made him with others, as Jean’s interest started to twist and yield to fit around Nathaniel’s mere existence—it was hard to deny.

Harder, perhaps, to admit it. That’s why none of them ever addressed the problem. And when Riko did, with cold stares or sharp blows, they pretended not to see. They pretended not to be affected whenever Jean would refuse to obey and Riko would retaliate by punching Nathaniel in the guts ‘till he was on his knees, or when Nathaniel would be slacking on court and Riko would reward his lack of cooperation by breaking Jean’s nose.

It had taken time, that’s true, but it had worked in the end. Nathaniel and Jean, both complying without protest to spare each other the pain of being beaten unconscious and stitched back to health. Truth was Nathaniel couldn’t bear the sight of Jean soaked in his own blood, and not just because it reeked his own guilt. It was something else, something that would put him on edge a little more each day. It was starting to be insanely difficult to ignore the need for Jean’s proximity, for Jean’s warmth so easily provided, for Jean’s smile that only Nathaniel seemed to ever earn. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen Jean willingly talking to anyone else, much less giving any sign of sympathy—and oh, did it make things more complicated than he’d expected.

In technical terms, Jean and Nathaniel were perfect. They’d delivered Tetsuji exactly what he wanted, and the results were astonishing, beating by far Riko and Kevin’s bond eyes closed. Nathaniel and Jean could find each other in the dark, they could decipher each other’s whispers and warmth and fear, they could move as one like two bones of one limb. One without the other was terrifying—but the two together—they could crush the world to its core until nothing was left.

Nathaniel didn’t need Jean to be in a bad mood, but whenever he crossed his grey, unreadable eyes or brushed bare skin, he sunk back to the depths of resentment. It was stupid to wish his only ally goodbye, but it was the only defense mechanism he could think of—and though he was tired of pushing Jean away from time to time, and though he knew how moody and unstable Jean’s presence in the Nest made him, he couldn’t help any of it. He was on the extremes within seconds: furious or blunt in his apathy. There was no middle ground,  except perhaps in the questionable safety of Jean’s arms. The thought was as dangerous, however, and Nathaniel couldn’t consider it an option on days like that. On days when needing Jean felt like it could kill him. Because these days, he felt like he would let him.

Jean couldn’t corner him to talk or speak French in Riko’s presence, so lunch was a quiet and uncomfortable thing everyone should have been used to by now. Nathaniel didn’t mind, his comfort zone directly linked to Jean’s—as far as he was concerned, if Jean was sitting next to him, then he was alright with whatever atmosphere they’d let fall upon them. Kevin wasn’t planning on making things any easier, obediently quiet and alert, perhaps resembling Jean a little more when the both of them would listen and nod, education anchored in their flesh.

Nathaniel didn’t make the effort of listening, and he much less looked up to any of them. He poked his food around, uninterested in it, wishing for afternoon practice to come already. He wanted to play, he wanted to run, and lingering uselessly felt like a torture. Pushing away all thoughts of Jean shifted his focus back to exy instantly, and it felt good—at least, in the beginning.

Jean stared when they got up to clean their table, but Nathaniel neatly ignored it.

Afternoon practice turned out as harsh as it was to be expected. After the better of an hour spent watching exy reports with Kevin and Riko in one of the den, the pair had followed the flock of Ravens to the changing room—Nathaniel a little too willingly, ready in a minute, passive-aggressively waiting by the inside door for Jean to join before they’d get out of the room. If it was unpleasant waiting for Nathaniel, being waiting for by him was even worse, and Jean swallowed back the irritation when he saw his partner’s face scrunched up in annoyance.

Violence followed, almost immediately—strikers checked so hard they almost got concussed, and Riko had such a hard time getting to the goal and past Nathaniel when his anger was a fuel on the court that everyone could see fury slowly seeping through each of Riko’s features. It was a ticking-bomb, and it was only a matter of time before it’d explode, but he couldn’t care less.

Then Jean got checked hard in his turn, and Nathaniel stilled to a slow stop, eyes hovering to follow the scene. He did frown, and he did tense—but Nathaniel made no move to intervene when Jean got punched in the nose, as he so often was. Blood came out with Jean’s glove when he touched to assess the damage, and he looked up when he felt Nathaniel’s gaze on him. Nathaniel frowned deeper, with an anger Jean couldn’t quite tell who he was directed against, and Nathaniel turned around without a word. It was insanely brutal compared to what they used to, and it left Jean shaken enough that he got pushed around a little more next serves. Nathaniel didn’t go out of his way to punish the striker who’d consciously hurt Jean, and focused on rubbing Riko’s nerves raw—oh was it satisfying. It was delicious, tasting danger in the back of his throat, and it was so insanely worth it if it meant he could see Riko helpless for once. Riko without his control was nothing, Riko without his power was no one. He couldn’t best Nathaniel without obedience at the end of his leash, and today, Nathaniel felt like being difficult.

It earned him a vicious elbow punch that distracted him long enough for Riko to reach the goal, and he scored in a second. Nathaniel turned back to him with the sharp smile of his father, both satisfied and infuriated. Jean followed every bit, then searched for Kevin’s eyes, and met the same disapproving shake of his head. If Nathaniel thought he could get away with that, he was so terribly wrong.

***

Evening practice was cancelled, some sloppy freshman got in charge of cleaning up the court, so all Ravens were free to do whatever they wanted for the rest of the day. Jean and Nathaniel wordlessly went to the den to join their brothers, and as Kevin and Riko watched TV and Jean read a book, Nathaniel focused on his homework for his next tutoring session. It was French, and above his shoulder he could feel Jean’s gaze cautiously peeping—it became obvious at some point that Nathaniel was stuck on a sentence, but he didn’t ask Jean for help. In ask, he didn’t ask Jean anything.

***

Dinner was a cold, undying silence. Riko’s jaw clenched and unclenched as he stared at Nathaniel, and Nathaniel didn’t abandon his smile for a second as he stared back. The only conversation was Kevin and Jean’s desperate attempt at drowning the tension slowly escalating on either sides of their table, so palpable all the other groups in the kitchen could hardly ignore it. People stared, expecting Nathaniel to stab someone’s hand again, or perhaps for Riko to force his stare down and his smile out. But his lips didn’t shake and didn’t fall, as though the slit was carved on Nathaniel’s face, impossible to erase. It was _him_.

***

As soon as Nathaniel walked through their bedroom door, Jean pushed him so hard against the wall he heard a gasp of surprise. It was a short and brief pinch of satisfaction, swiftly followed by a cold laughter as Nathaniel let himself get pinned against the wall, unmoving and obedient, teeth sharp as he genuinely mocked Jean’s sudden bravery.

“Are you going to punch me?” he teased, violent. “Go ahead. Show me what you’re like. I’ve been waiting for you to give up on that soft card of yours.”

“I’m not soft,” Jean growled through gritted teeth, but Nathaniel’s smile didn’t budge, like he was certain it would push him over the edge—and Jean thought perhaps it would.

It wasn’t why he was doing this anyway: he simply knew it was the only way to get Nathaniel to listen. He knew just as perfectly how easy it would be for Nathaniel to revert their positions and punish him for thinking he ever could keep him there, shoulders pushed back against the walls by fierce palms. They’d been rivals and allies, and they’d tested their limits again and again, but never had Jean made the mistake of assuming he could control Nathaniel. He only ever tried, faintly, before giving up—and tonight it wasn’t about control, it was about necessity.

“Why are you doing this?” Jean asked.

“I’m not doing anything,” Nathaniel frowned a little. Irritation was slowly pushing its way back onto Nathaniel’s face, and he wasn’t sure if he liked the smile better.

“You’re not,” Jean confirmed, resentful. “You’re off and distant and furious. You’re going to get me killed.” It wasn’t the problem, it really wasn’t, but it was excuse enough that he could use it. It wasn’t a lie and they knew it, Nathaniel had Jean’s safety in his open palms, and so did Jean. Where Jean took reasonable care of it, Nathaniel crushed it recklessly. “What the fuck is your problem, Nathaniel?”

“You’re asking me?” Nathaniel snapped, smile back onto his lips as he made a harsh chin gesture towards their position. He felt Jean’s hands loosen their grip on his shoulders, perhaps to show he wasn’t fighting for dominance tonight.

They didn’t have time to argue any longer, because their door was still wide open and they could decipher the swift and confident tap tap of Riko’s footsteps. They heard the smoother, more regular ones as Kevin followed, and he appeared next to Riko’s smiling figure, hands deep in his pockets but a dark veil all over his face screaming _I told you so_.

Jean let Nathaniel free, but they didn’t go far. Kevin closed the door from the inside, knowing too well what to do, and he tensed when Riko went straight for Jean. The punch got him to the cheek and Jean stumbled breathless, lifting a cautious hand to touch and make sure he hadn’t lost a tooth in the process. Nathaniel watched, frown deep and serious, before he shifted his focus back to Riko.

The smile slowly seeped in, and perhaps Riko should have gone for Nathaniel before he did—or before he came for Jean at all.

He took hold of Riko’s hair and pulled hard, twisting his neck at a dangerous angle before Kevin’s horrified eyes, and he didn’t hesitate before he punched right into Riko’s guts. The choke he let out was almost too satisfying, but before he could go any further, Kevin’s solid figure stepped in between them, eyes so stern and disapproving it felt like being scolded by his own mother. His own dead fucking mother.

“That’s enough,” Kevin yelled, but it was a plea and Nathaniel knew it.

Nathaniel let go of Riko’s hair and let Kevin hold him backwards to assess the damage while Nathaniel peeped over his own shoulder to make sure Jean was alright. He still had a hand over his cheek, and he could see blood on his lips. Jean was looking right back, expression tight with something he wasn’t sure he liked, perhaps a little lost somewhere between gratefulness and disapproval.

Riko tried to get to him when Kevin stepped to the side, and Nathaniel instinctively stepped back against the wall—but the hand he raised held a knife, and Riko stopped short, in extremis, chest so close to the blade it was already tearing a hole in the dark fabric.

“Nathaniel Wesninski,” Riko laughed sourly. “As pathetically insolent as his father.”

The mention made Nathaniel’s eyes shine, and Jean straightened in defensive motion, ready to pull Riko out of there if he went too far. It wasn’t Nathaniel’s violence he was afraid of right now, it was the emotional toll Riko could easily cause, and that, Jean couldn’t tolerate. Nathaniel was a broken mess he wasn’t sure he could ever fix, but he wasn’t going to let anyone ruin him any more.

“Do you really think resistance will work for you? Perhaps do you falsely assume it’ll protect you? I really can’t tell if you’re that stupid. Then again,” Riko said as he slid his gaze towards Jean, and Kevin’s eyes widened. “I guess you really are.”

Riko smiled at Jean and it had nothing of a smile but its shape. He backed off of Nathaniel and turned around, leaving the room instantly. Kevin couldn’t stall much longer than that and he gave them a worried frown, glancing back and forth between the two, throat tight with another silent _I told you so_. It was exactly what he’d feared, and Riko hadn’t missed it.

Jean and Nathaniel, however, didn’t seem to understand what had just happened. Before they could ask, Kevin was already gone.

Jean rushed across the room to close to the door, like he was afraid Riko would come back, like he honestly thought the door would be enough to keep him out. The illusion would be enough, though. When he turned around, surprise made him stumble back against the wall in his turn and Nathaniel’s cold stare pinned him there, palms flat on the door on each side of Jean’s face. He was so tall compared to Nathaniel, and Jean felt stupid for feeling so intimidated.

He wasn’t afraid for all that. He trusted him—more than he should, that’s for sure.

“I don’t want this,” Nathaniel snarled low.

“You’ve already said this,” was his annoyed response as he recalled the countless times Nathaniel had told him that. He didn’t want Jean, he didn’t want a partner, he didn’t want to be followed and needed and needing him back. “Neither do I,” Jean snapped, and he wasn’t sure if he was being honest, but the slight twist on Nathaniel’s face showed the impact of his words anyways. It was too late to take them back.

It was an evidence they’d established from the start: neither of them wanted to be with the other. They didn’t want to bother or care for each other and they certainly didn’t want to share their lives like two halves of one entity. But months had passed, months and months, and they’d gotten so close, so very dangerously close, that perhaps Nathaniel had assumed Jean’s mind has shifted, if not completely, then just enough.

He couldn’t tell what bothered him more: the possibility that it had, or the possibility that it hadn’t.

“You’re the disease, Jean. You’re the fucking plague. I won’t let you infect me.”

Jean swallowed his confusion down. Their faces were way too close and the pain still stung in his cheek when he talked:

“You’re already sick,” he said, though they didn’t know which of Nathaniel’s issues he was referring to. His undying violence, his love for all things life-threatening, or perhaps the invisible red string tying both their wrists, too ill-starred to be cut.

Nathaniel breathed hard, examining Jean’s face like he was trying to decide if it was worth saving. He still had his knife in one of his hand, and he’d only need a second to cut his throat. It should have been terrible—what was even more terrible, however, was the startling realization that he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t stand it. He simply, horridly, irrevocably just couldn’t stand hurting him.

He slammed his fists against the wall, so close to Jean’s face that he closed his eyes instinctively. When he tentatively opened them again, Nathaniel’s face was hard and lost, searching for a scenario where things could possibly turn out alright. He didn’t find any.

“I don’t want you,” he grunted, but it felt like a lie in his throat.

Nathaniel folded his knife but, instead of backing off, he took a fierce hold of Jean’s front. The sweat’s fabric was thick enough that it gave him a good grip, and Jean didn’t protest.

They stared each other down like they always did, fighting for something they couldn’t name. Their breaths got a tad more difficult as seconds passed, and Jean lowered his gaze when he caught Nathaniel’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. If his eyes looked up again, they stopped at Nathaniel’s lips, and his cheek screamed in pain when he bit into it.

Cautiously, he raised his hands to rest them on Nathaniel’s wrists. His skin was warm, softer than his palms, and he stretched his fingers all around the flesh without ever tightening. Jean gently pulled them down, and he was left breathless when Nathaniel let him.

He stole the switchblade from his fist and took his time to slip it into Nathaniel’s jean pocket. Though he wasn’t sure he’d get away with it, he rested his hand there, on his hip, gentle enough that Nathaniel wouldn’t mistake it for power.

Their breaths crashed against each other, and Jean could only stare down with how close they were. Quietly, their noses brushed like they had back in the hotel, and Nathaniel’s slowly slid down his jaw and to his neck, stopping there, where he breathed out so hard against the skin Jean shivered. His breath was warm but it was so sensitive and unusual that he couldn’t help the soft exhalation.

Nathaniel felt dizzy from head to toe. He nudged the side of Jean’s neck with his nose, and brushed mindless lips to the crook before parting them ever so slightly, just enough for it to be a kiss.

Jean felt his clenched jaw against his neck after that, and he could tell the amount of self-control it’d taken Nathaniel not to let violence bloom in his every breath. He’d calmed down in Jean’s grip, it was undeniable—but caution lingered, right there, as chaos pulsed in Nathaniel’s veins.

Nathaniel was a boy of destruction and misery, holding chaos with timid fingertips, pushing knives into people’s chests—but the kiss in his neck felt like heaven, like redemption, like a secret wordlessly given away.

Jean’s hand tightened around his hip and he ran his other into Nathaniel’s curls, pulling his closer though he didn’t register it until he felt the weight of Nathaniel’s body against his. The boy didn’t fight back, he didn’t ask for space and he didn’t reach for his blade. It was safe—so incredibly, inexplicably safe.

It wasn’t the first time they’d gotten this close, Nathaniel knew, but it still felt wrong pushing his body against Jean’s, taking in every bit of human warmth he’d never been given as a child. But it was different, it was different—every breath Jean managed was heavy with something shaky and mesmerizing, and he mouthed quiet kisses on Jean’s throat.

It was distracting, the way they breathed a little too harsh for the silence swallowing them both; and Jean slid a soft hand underneath his shirt, running a slow and cautious palm on Nathaniel’s warm skin. He felt the shiver Nathaniel couldn’t and didn’t hold back, and he titled his neck to kiss his in his turn. It only felt fair, like paying back a debt, though they had long stopped keeping score.

 _You’re getting under my skin,_ Nathaniel felt like saying, spitting venom like it could save him. No word came out.

 _You taste like danger, pretty boy,_ Jean hummed in a breath, but it crashed against his skin and got lost forever.

Jean’s head snapped back against the door, and the brutal sound of it got Nathaniel out of his haze. Cheeks flushed pink and eyes unfocused, he looked every bit like the kind of danger Jean would kill for, but there was something disapproving in the curl of his tight lips.

Nathaniel could have asked why he’d done that, but it was a welcome diversion. He took a step back, and Jean instantly missed the protection of his body trustingly holding his. Jean snapped his skull back twice in frustration, and the twist of a teasing smile slowly found its way to his lips. It was like winning something.

“Some people can carry diseases without ever being infected, you know.” It was his way of saying he could get away with this, that he could survive the chaos he’d brought to them.

“Some are condemned,” Nathaniel pointed out.

Jean lost his smile but his eyes stayed tender. He stared with a startling calm, like he’d accepted the consequences.

Neither of them moved: not because they felt uncomfortable, but because it didn’t make sense to revert their attention to something else than each other. It was late enough to sleep, but they were more awake than they’d been in years.

Finally, Nathaniel raised a hand—and though it came quick, it landed soft. He wiped the blood off Jean’s lower lip and brought his thumb back, observing the bright red stain on his own flesh. He looked up, radiating provocation, and Jean didn’t blink when Nathaniel slid his thumb between his lips to lick his blood.

Jean’s breath hitched in the silence between them, and Nathaniel accepted that victory with nonchalance. It’s only when he turned away to strip for bed that Jean could move again, and he felt the numbness down to his fingertips.

Nathaniel Wesninski was one terrible, dangerous thing, but _god_ was he fascinating.

***

The dens were overcrowded—at least to Nathaniel and Jean’s standards—and thus, they decided to sit in the stands of Evermore’s bleachers. The privacy was welcome, though their voices easily got lost in echo if they talked too loud, but for the most part they were content just sitting there in comfortable silence. Jean had brought his piece of classic literature, pages yellow with overuse and front cover half shredded by rough and clumsy treatments over the years. He didn’t know why Jean liked to read so much, but he assumed he was trying to absorb as much English vocabulary as possible. Now that Jean was far from his motherland and even farther from his family, he didn’t have any reason left to speak French. Except for Nathaniel—and somehow, Nathaniel found pride in this knowledge. It was a piece of Jean’s life he was helping survive, a little bit nobody could ever steal that he was protecting willingly.

Nathaniel had his elbows on his knees, bent forward and staring at the empty court. All the lights were on but there wasn’t anyone around, most Ravens being in class—Kevin and Riko were nowhere to be found, and Jean had convinced him to leave their dorm for an hour or two. Mingling was out of question when Nathaniel was so on edge, though their quiet truce the previous evening had smoothed it out a bit, and they’d come up with the stadium instead. Nathaniel didn’t mind. This place was his home, it was where he wanted to be the most. He could hear familiar echoes of sneakers screeching on the court floor and exy balls bouncing against goal walls. But when he looked up, they were alone; they were always alone.

He hadn’t even noticed Jean wasn’t reading anymore, thumb marking his page where he’d stopped as the pages flipped back. Jean wasn’t staring, he had his eyes on the court—but it was clear he intended on starting a conversation. Nathaniel let him; perhaps was it because of how nice it felt to be there, alone, to have the court for him alone. His fingers twitched with the need to play but he flexed them until the crave disappeared.

“What do you want to do after graduation?” Jean asked, voice tired like he was trying to recall a far-off memory.

Nathaniel didn’t answer right away, but when he did, it sounded like he’d never doubted. “I’m going to make it to Court.” There were no shakiness nor confidence in his voice—he’d stated the fact like it was something he already knew would happen and had had his entire life to get used to. Perhaps had he talked enough with Kevin about their post-graduation plans that it seemed banal enough.

“I see,” Jean simply answered.

Such a short answer for something he’d willingly asked for confused Nathaniel, and he glanced to the side with a frown that didn’t bode well. It was the presages of something like passive anger, something like dismissal. The kind Jean would take days to make up for. He was used to Nathaniel’s mood swings by now, and the intensity of it—the way he could go from his brother to his worst enemy, and how quick they were each time to forget all about it, but he didn’t want to take any risks, so he put his book on the seat next to him and slid closer until their thighs touched.

“You don’t think I can make it?” Nathaniel said, and it was a test.

Test or not, Jean didn’t need to fall into it. He’d never been anything but honest, at least with Nathaniel. “I think it’ll cost me an extravagant amount of money to come to see you play,” he corrected.

Nathaniel squinted without any reaction, observing Jean like he was trying to figure out if it was a lie or not. Then again, he’d seen the way Jean had reacted after seeing him play for the first time, and he thought perhaps it resembled the way Nathaniel had when Jean had beaten the Coyotes. Breathtaking, awe and admiration—all mixed together with a fierce glint of pride in their eyes. He decided he believed him, though it might have been long-practiced arrogance speaking.

“I’m assuming you don’t plan on playing after graduation.”

“Not really,” Jean said. The pause he made was uncertain, and Nathaniel understood he was still thinking about it. He had five years left to make his decision, though, so there was no rush. “I’m not born to play like you and Kevin were.”

The smirk Nathaniel gave soon turned into a short laughter, and Jean’s face turned pale as he brutally looked at him, both startled and amazed by the sound. Nathaniel’s real laughter was a cautious, warm thing—far from the cold and confident ones he let out through the thick hazes of red-hot anger. He couldn’t help but stare, and felt like asking him to do it again.

“Riko would strangle you right here and now if he’d heard you.”

“Isn’t he part of your plans?”

Nathaniel shrugged. He’d never really felt like he had a choice about _that_ , and the Perfect Court Riko was slowly picking was both a publicity stunt and a delusion. He didn’t know which to settle for. In his dreams he stood in the middle of the Court at Kevin’s sides, smiling with arrogant pride as the crowd cheer their astonishing victory. Riko’s shadows had never come any closer, and he felt startled, like all this time he’d never wondered what to do with him. There was no doubt Riko wouldn’t let them part, which led to another important question.

“If you don’t plan on making it to Court with us, how do you think Riko is going to react?” It wasn’t disapproval, it was genuine curiosity. He thought perhaps Jean had thought this through more than he had, and Jean looked like a boy who never came up short on ideas. All Jean had been thinking about for the past months, though, had been how to escape—so it was a toss-up.

But Jean only shrugged, and it looked like he'd been trying hard not to think about _that_.

It was a while before Nathaniel spoke again.

“Show me your smile,” he asked.

“Make me laugh, then.”

Nathaniel settled for provocation. “I think you dreamed of me last night.” His tone was serious and he was looking at the Court, so Jean frowned in confusion. He assumed Nathaniel had abandoned on making him laugh and switched topics just like that, just because he could.

“What did you just say?” he almost stuttered, way too startled.

“I said you dreamed of me last night,” he repeated clinically. He looked so detached when their eyes met than Jean couldn’t help but swallow. But then, he said: “I’m not that good in French, you know, but I can recognize an insult when I hear one.”

It took a moment for Jean to register the words, and he fought back when he felt the corners of his mouth curling up a little. Nathaniel didn’t look phased, staring back and observing his micro-expressions like it was only a matter of time.

“What did I say about you?” Jean said, light with provocation.

“If I recall, I think you called me an asshole. And something about my lips?” It was hard to decipher Nathaniel’s expression when he looked so apathetic, and though Jean knew it was only to destabilize him, it was troubling.

Jean swallowed dry again, but the silence that stretched afterwards was deafening.

“I’m not hearing you deny it,” Nathaniel said. It was a joke, Jean could hear it in his tone (Jean never talked in his sleep anyways), but the way they locked eyes with each other without ever, ever tearing their gaze away was telling and problematic. The fact that Jean didn’t answer was, perhaps, even more. “Am I to understand you dreamed about me last night?”

Jean was many things but never a liar. It was pointless finding excuses. “Yes.”

Though all clues had pointed to this answer, Nathaniel hadn’t really expected him to say that. His brows shook imperceptibly as he processed the thought, and then he straightened, going back to Jean’s level.

“What was I doing?” Nathaniel asked, honestly curious. There was some underlying there, though, something like danger and temptation.

Jean stared like he wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to answer. It left him chilly, like somehow Jean had overstepped forbidden boundaries and was quietly admitting his crime. He didn’t know if he was meant to scold him, mock him or ask for more, whatever that ‘more’ could be. Nathaniel’s heart was racing in his chest, and he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“Existing,” Jean simply said. It wasn’t a lie, though it wasn’t the entire truth, either. It was the only stalemate he would allow himself for now. But then, he looked down. “I dream about you more than I should.”

Nathaniel shrugged. “People don’t choose what they dream about.” He could prove it with how many times he’d dreamed about his father’s knives and his father’s smile and his father’s men. There was nothing like control in the bottomless depths of his dreams, and it was best to abandon any hope at the edge of the night than to wake up disappointed and alone.

He stared at Jean’s dark lashes and then he realized he dreamed about Jean, too, and perhaps even more than he did about his father.

“You should find something new tonight. Something nice to hold on to until you wake up.” It was self-loathing, but it was the softest advice Nathaniel had ever given him. How sad, that it was to the cost of his existence.

“You are fine to dream with,” Jean admitted.

“I’ll bring you nightmares,” Nathaniel warned.

“I can take it.” Jean didn’t look away, fierce with determination.

“You will beg for me to leave,” he snapped. He’d begged his father over and over and over again.

They’d had moments like this many times, moments when time floated in between time, moments when Nathaniel wasn’t sure it was his heartbeats he was hearing or Jean’s. Both, perhaps, and Jean clenched his thigh in mindless anxiety.

“Do you miss your mother?” Jean asked, but it was no attack. It was Jean’s genuine worried streak.

“Not really,” he said without a lie. “I’ve been used to her absence for a long time.”

Jean pointed his chin down towards Nathaniel’s jean pocket.

“Didn’t she text you sometimes?”

“Nobody texts me,” Nathaniel corrected.

“That’s sad.” Jean’s voice held no mockery and no pity in it. It was a fact, it was the truth, and Nathaniel accepted it. So did Jean, who looked like he knew more than he should about sadness and its aftertaste. Nathaniel wondered if he’d be able to pick up on the taste if he ever kissed him.

“There are worse things than being alone.” Being with his father, for starter.

“Surely. That doesn’t mean you should be.”

Nathaniel’s face relaxed in a breath, and Jean was so startled he frowned. “I am not.” He meant it. He had Jean. That couldn’t mean everything, but it wasn’t nothing, either. He wasn’t going to admit certain things—but that, that he could. Or perhaps he shouldn’t have, as he watched Jean swallow again. His Adam’s apple was way too distracting, and he almost told Jean to wear turtlenecks to hide it. Jean was already distracting enough as he was, and Nathaniel certainly didn’t need that.

Jean thought about his words for a moment, then nodded. “Show me your scars.” Nathaniel frowned, thinking perhaps he was talking about his scarred front and back, and then Jean looked down to his forearm.

“They’ve healed,” he informed.

“Show me,” Jean insisted—and when Nathaniel made no move to react, Jean grabbed his wrist, firmly enough to dissuade him to force himself out of his grip, and slid the black sleeve of Nathaniel’s hoodie up to his elbow. He turned his forearm towards him and hovered the healed scars with careful fingertips. “Have you found something?”

Nathaniel frowned again, a little bit confused. Jean’s track of thoughts was too quick for his own, or maybe he simply wasn’t precise enough. Either way he was starting to get irritated, impatience pulsing at his throat like a ticking bomb.

“Something?” he repeated through gritted, and it was the best he could.

“New coping mechanisms. Can’t torture a healed wound, can you?”

It sounded like a dare, but Nathaniel preferred to ignore that. Jean really couldn’t stand his self-destructive streak, or rather his total absence of care when it came to his own health and body. That’s why Jean was always the one to patch him up. If not for him, his wounds would never heal. He really did miss the familiar sting of Lola’s burns, but that, he wasn’t going to tell Jean either.

As an answer, he pulled out his cigarette pack out of his picket with his free hand. He held it up in the air between them, and opened the pack with a flick of his index. Jean watched, putting Nathaniel’s arm down on his own thigh, but he didn’t take his hand back where it rested on Nathaniel’s wrist. Distraction, perhaps, or maybe he took advantage of the diversion to steal a little bit of warmth.

Nathaniel looked down, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t pull away from his grip and he didn’t ask him to. It was fine. He took a second to wonder when it’d been that okay to let Jean touch him when he never let anyone do so. Riko had never asked for permission, but that, he thought, couldn’t count. Riko never really did count.

“You want one?” he asked, eyes lingering thoughtfully on Jean’s fingers still stretched around his wrist. The grip was oddly reassuring, like it pulled him back to reality—or kept him from slipping away from it.

“I don’t smoke,” Jean said disapprovingly. “And neither do you.” His tone was confident, not necessarily because he’d never seen Nathaniel smoke but because he didn’t really believe Nathaniel would enjoy it.

Nathaniel liked to prove people wrong, though, so he pulled one free and stuck it between his lips. They weren’t allowed to smoke at Evermore, much less in the facilities, but the bleachers were wide enough that the faint smoke of one cigarette couldn’t go too far. That’s what he told himself to step around the possible consequences of it, at least. He put his pack down, unwilling to take his other arm back, which Jean distractedly noticed.

Then he lit his cigarette with the lighter he’d tucked in the pack, and put it away instantly. He had a love and hate relationship with flames, he knew, much like pyromaniacs and fire survivors, and the self-destructive part of him would have a hard time resisting the urge to bring his burns back to life. He didn’t have much to hold onto lately, physically; Riko wasn’t going soft, but everything was so deep inside, hidden between organs and bones and flesh that there was nothing to bother at the surface. Barely enough bruises to keep him distracted, barely enough cuts to wince.

Perhaps was that why he was getting so close to Jean or rather, letting Jean get that close—he was replacing a terrible thing by another. Both harmful and destructive, dangerous enough that he shouldn’t ever allow them.

It didn’t make him pull away from Jean’s grip for all that. There were things he didn’t want to find answers to.

“What about you?” he asked, cigarette moving up and down with his lips until he took a drag and held it between his fingers. His grasp on it was timid and unexperienced, and the smoke burned the back of his throat—but he liked the smell, for some reason.

“I don’t need coping mechanisms when I have you,” Jean shrugged, but it was more accusatory than nonchalant. It was meant to prove how toxic Nathaniel actually was, but Nathaniel only lingered on the fact that they couldn’t stand being apart from each other for too long, personalities aside.

“Don’t say that. Tomorrow’s an Away game and I’m not going to be there.”

“Weren’t you two weeks ago, for the Coyotes?”

“I asked for that. He granted it. How much do you think I can push my luck with the master? I’m not a big fan of getting my hopes up.”

Jean shrugged again and Nathaniel saw the urgency in it. Jean was trying to convince him, and he was afraid Nathaniel would say no. “You have nothing to lose, really.” Perhaps as a punition, or a means to bring Nathaniel back to the startling reality of his words, he let go of his arm and crossed his own. “Just ask and see if he lets you come with me.”

 _With you_ , Nathaniel almost whispered in echo, and though he didn’t say it, Jean heard it in his silence.

“With us,” he corrected, eyes harsh to make up for his mistake. Nathaniel looked thrown off, so Jean looked at the court with every intention to force Nathaniel into accepting the problem. “If I’m not there tomorrow, how do you think you’re going to feel? How will you sleep?”

There was nothing wrong in admitting they both needed each other by now. It was something they weren’t stupid enough to deny, not when Kevin was so deeply codependent of Riko—they were just the same, perhaps even worse. No—undoubtedly worse.

Their codependency was a direct consequence of Tetsuji’s system, and they’d never had a say in it, so this was safe to talk about. It left them feeling lighter, deprived of the heavy guilt they usually felt whenever they stared a little too long.

“Bad,” Nathaniel admitted, and there was no shame in it. He was mature enough to tell Jean the truth, especially when Jean already knew it. Surely it did crack the thick front of his pride, but it was necessary.

“Then come with me.”

“So what?” Nathaniel laughed, and it sourly empty. “So I get to sneak out and share your bed again? I’m not a child—I don’t need to be lulled into sleeping.”

It felt wrong saying those things when he’d been the one to sneak into Jean’s room, but he ignored that fact with pleasure.

Saying these things aloud, admitting they were real—it left him shivering and he turned away, troubled by it. He didn’t want Jean to know how deeply his presence and, consequently, his absence touched him; more than for his codependency issues. It was more complicated than that, and it seemed incurable enough that Nathaniel didn’t see the point in bringing it up, especially when he was still hanging on to the last bits of freedom he had. He wasn’t sure who he would become if he gave Jean everything.

“Dodging will get you nowhere,” Jean scolded, his voice suddenly cold. He didn’t like Nathaniel voicing what they were doing just to prove a point, especially if he said those words with such detachment. Like, somehow, they’d slept in the same bed two weeks ago just because they were too lonely. Like, somehow, it didn’t mean much and wasn’t worth being addressed again. It was wasting it—tainting it with something unpleasant like dishonesty, and Jean didn’t like that.

No matter what Nathaniel had to say, it’d cost him to let Nathaniel in, too.

“I’m not dodging,” Nathaniel said as he got up, proving Jean’s point.

Jean snorted. Nathaniel took a drag.

“Then tell me, Nathaniel. How terrible can your father be if such a thing hardly made you blink?” Nathaniel knew without looking that he’d pointed at his forearm, and he rolled his sleeve down again like it could shield him from Jean’s perfect aim. His questions were personal, but they were right on point, and that’s what he loathed most. “Why do you like to hurt so much, huh? How come you run away whenever you get the slightest chance of relief and comfort?”

“Relief and comfort,” Nathaniel repeated, violence seeping through—and that was Jean’s cue to backpedal, but it was too late. “There are no such things as relief and comfort here, Jean. Fucking wake up for once. It’s not one of your disillusions, you are not getting home. You are not leaving. This is your prison and this is your home. It is what it is. Grieve over your relief and comfort and then come back to me.”

His tone was acid, but he didn’t linger to fight. He crushed the half-burned cigarette on the seat he’d abandoned and put it back into his pack.

“Nathaniel,” Jean tried, and he shifted in his seat as though to make him stay.

Nathaniel was already far, walking to the stairs and then down to the inner court. Jean settled back into his seat, throat tight and cheeks burning. Watching Nathaniel leave felt like breaking in two.

Nathaniel didn’t look back—neither did he try to find Jean after that, leaving him be in his corner, and exploring his maze of a maze in search for Riko and Kevin.

He really didn’t like smoking that much.

***

Jean overstepping his boundaries had thrown a cold war between them again, as it always did, and it seemed to amuse Riko more than greatly. Kevin looked exhausted with their off-and-on wobbly alliance, but he and Riko couldn’t possibly understand. They were like brothers, and Kevin’s spotless obedience—or rather deep-rooted trauma—kept them from arguing. Not that hard and not that much anyways. The real reason behind all of their fights was avoidance, and Nathaniel knew it too well, so he did exactly what he shouldn’t do: he avoided some more.

Practice was a bland thing, but fortunately, Nathaniel’s temper had cooled down a bit. He was more focused on ignoring Jean now than he’d been on being angry at everyone two days ago. It was easier, and less exhausting; but it was a tad more unpleasant. While Nathaniel thrived in his anger, ignoring his only ally was a long shiver of loneliness down his sweaty spine. Kevin was his friend, his best friend perhaps, or his only—but he was Riko’s, he always belonged to Riko. Now that Nathaniel had been paired up, he wasn’t expected to stick around his brothers anymore, and now that he’d gotten awfully used to Jean’s presence, it was harder to be alone.

He never really was, though. Jean was still there—watching intently, making sure nobody got too close to Nathaniel, making sure everyone remembered that, even when they neatly ignored each other, Nathaniel was his.

It was a forbidden thing to think, but it left him pleased against his will.

Kevin entered their room ten minutes before they were expected to leave for the bus. Their away game was, again, far enough that they’d stay at a hotel afterwards, but the two next away games after this one were only an hour away. He made sure Jean was ready, and that Jean had gone over his opponents’ lineup well enough—Nathaniel watched from his desk as he made him answer to technical questions: players’ heights, players’ positions, players’ most favorite panic move and their potential danger in bodychecking. There was real urgency in Kevin’s words, however: the Ravens were so skilled and synchronic it’d be hard to lose even if they tried. Still, Kevin liked perfection and he liked clean plays, and he wanted his team to get the most goals in possible before the final buzz.

He was about to leave when he turned to Nathaniel, a stern look on his face. “What are you doing?”

The annoyed look Nathaniel gave should have been enough.

He held up his homework in both hands. “Working. Isn’t that obvious enough?” He expected Kevin to snort and tell him he didn’t look like one who’d work hard, but Kevin only frowned deeper.

“You should be getting ready. Where is your bag? You are not going to make us late. This is an important game.”

“They are all important,” Nathaniel rolled his eyes, voice cold. “What should I be getting ready for, exactly?”

Confusion found its way onto Kevin’s face, and Jean stilled in the background, clean t-shirt half-buried in his bag as he twisted to watch them and follow the exchange.

“The trip? We’re leaving in ten minutes flat. Get up.”

Nathaniel laughed, and it surely wasn’t one they would like to hear. “I am not going.”

“You are, though. Riko won’t like to know you are making us late, so hurry up.” When Nathaniel only stared back in disarray, Kevin lost his patience and rushed to his desk to close the notebook in front of him. “Now. The master will kill us all if you don’t.”

The master, Nathaniel thought. The master.

He looked at Jean, like perhaps he’d sneaked around in his back and asked the master for permission in his stead. That would be low coming from Jean, but he couldn’t figure out another explanation. Jean frowned in a defensive motion, and turned in silence to finish packing.

Nathaniel reverted his attention back to Kevin. “Why would the master want me there?”

“You can complain in the bus,” Kevin growled, greatly annoyed. “You’re part of the team. You make the team whole and focused. They want to win for you. Hurry up now,” he said, and left without a word.

Nathaniel got up and watched him leave. It didn’t make sense, but he obeyed still, swallowing back the harsh resentment. It’d have saved Jean and him a lot of trouble to know that yesterday, but now that they were consciously ignoring each other, going to the Ravens’ game was the last thing Nathaniel wanted to do.

He put his homework in his duffel bag, along with clean clothes, sweatpants and his cellphone. He looked around like he’d forgotten something but couldn’t tell what, and zipped the bag closed with a frustrated sigh. He slung it over his shoulder, turned to check where Jean was, and almost jumped when he spotted him two feet away, already waiting for him.

They turned the lights off as they left, and circulating in the meanderings of Evermore’s underground maze was a long, silent thing heavy on their shoulders. No, ignoring each other definitely had never been something they enjoyed doing. Jean would have gladly put an end to it, since they were going to spend the trip together anyways, but Nathaniel was too proud of a boy to ever consider it for now. Later, perhaps. Later.

***

Though Jean was infinitely glad Nathaniel had come along, and though it hadn’t been on his own will, Jean kept it to himself. Things were bad as they were already, and there was no need to aggravate the situation by telling Nathaniel things he didn’t want to hear. They didn’t need to talk about it, anyways; even in their cold-shoulder silence, it was obvious they were relieved. Perhaps would they sleep alone tonight, but they were still together, and though Nathaniel made a point not to show it, he was thrilled by the exy game he was going to see. Live exy, with its raw violence and its vivid energy, had nothing to envy to boringly commented plays diffused on live TV or post-game sum-up clips, that’s for sure. Nathaniel got high on the insane energy floating in an exy court—the fans, the noise, the danger.

He wanted to play, and the wait was unbearable. In less than two years he’d be a Raven, too, and everything would be perfect. He tried not to think about the two years he’d have to live off without Jean after he’d graduate, but it was hard not to focus on that when he was so painfully aware of how dependent they both had grown to each other. It wasn’t healthy, and it sure as hell wasn’t pleasant, but they didn’t have a choice. At least it didn’t leave much room for Nathaniel’s old ghosts.

Nathaniel, in an all-black outfit and a tattooed cheekbone that screamed pride for his team, helped Coach Williams and the other assistants during the entire game. He picked up on players slacking up, trash-talked their resistance away when the Ravens gathered for the half break (under Riko and Kevin’s amused smirks)—fed water and Gatorade—collected racquets from players pulled out to be subbed. It didn’t exactly feel like being _useful_ and it certainly didn’t ease the throbbing ache in his guts whenever he watched a teammate walk towards the court doors, but it kept him distracted enough that it didn’t hurt too much.

He tried not to linger from the away benches whenever he spotted Jean on the court, but it was a hard thing to keep in mind when he so easily attracted his gaze. Perhaps was it the way he moved, swift and unseen like a ghost, and the solid efficiency of his defense, or maybe the smirk he caught here and then as Jean scared his opponents away or annoyed the goodwill out of them. For sure, he was amazing on a court, and Nathaniel could hardly shove an intimate kind of pride deep his guts. It was there, unwilling to shut up, unwilling to go, unwilling to even make itself discreet. Harder even was ignore the raw disappointment when Jean walked off the court after their victory and was met with Nathaniel’s averted eyes. Not a word was said, and that stung more than it should have. They were together and that should have been enough—but it wasn’t.

Nathaniel went to Kevin and Riko, congratulated them passively as nobody really thought it’d been an exciting game, not nearly as hard as they deserved anyways—and he even managed to steal Kevin’s attention from Riko for five chatty exy-directed minutes. Jean watched from afar as Riko joined him, and he barely even listened when Riko told him what kind of passes he’d mostly need on their next game—staring at the distracted, unaware half-smile Nathaniel fed Kevin when they recalled Kevin’s incredible footwork and last-minute goals. Of course, they went through Riko’s, too, but Kevin beamed with such pride Nathaniel couldn’t hold back his long-accustomed unhealthy obsession for Kevin.

The hotel had nothing on their previous ones. Though the Ravens had money, it was sometimes difficult to find enough room for the entire team, and Tetsuji always insisted they were on the same floor. He didn’t want certain room arrangements, and he didn’t want to stoop too low on his hotel standards, either, which made the pick difficult. Tonight, they all had a single bed per room, all on the same floor, with a sports room on the last floor as a bonus.

It wasn’t incredibly nice or comfortable, but it was minimalistic and more than Nathaniel needed. When he put his bag on his bed and sat on the edge, when silence settled and he could focus on the far-off noises coming through the walls from the corridor, Nathaniel suddenly felt terribly alone.

He dug out his phone and texted Kevin, who answered almost instantly. They were still buzzing with the game’s euphoria, and Nathaniel was too exhausted to go shower. His thoughts were going haywire but his body refused to move.

He’d been texting back and forth with Kevin for about seven minutes when the doorknob was pulled on and resisted. The disturber tried again, and Nathaniel tensed, jerking on his feet with a hovering hand over his pocketed knife. His phone fell against the mattress and he braced himself for violence, for anything—but then—then, Jean appeared in the doorframe, face flushed with a kind of urgency that made Nathaniel’s heart miss a beat.

The instant relief of seeing it was just Jean soon gave way to a sickening kind of worry at Jean’s twisted expression. The door closed behind him and Jean stopped where he was, swallowing quietly when he realized he didn’t know what to say now.

Nathaniel wanted to ask what he was doing here, but he was too proud to talk first. They hadn’t said a word to each other since their last fight, and Nathaniel wasn’t going to put his pride aside just to get answers from Jean. There were other ways. Instinctively, he reached for his blade and pulled it open, arms flat against his hips but fingers tight enough around the thin handle that Jean would know he wasn’t joking around.

Jean, though, was as stubborn as Nathaniel was, and he stepped forward anyway. He’d seen the switchblade and knew it was always near anyways, but he still came close, and close, and closer even—stopping a few inches shy of Nathaniel.

He didn’t like the proximity. Not because it overstepped his own boundaries, but because he couldn’t keep himself in check as well as he could from afar. It was easier to pretend things when Jean was out of reach, and a little less when he could feel his warm breath on his face.

Nathaniel turned away, switching his blade shut and opening his duffel bag to unpack what there was to pack. He’d only gotten hold of a dark grey hoodie when something tickled his exposed neck, and Nathaniel closed his eyes. This didn’t bode well, it really didn’t—not Jean’s breath on the back of his neck, and certainly not the deliciously painful churn in his guts.

He held his breath when he recognized Jean’s familiar hands on his hips, and squeezed his eyes tighter shut when he felt them slide in between Nathaniel’s arms and across his stomach then up his abdomen. Letting a soft breath out felt like giving up and he frowned, eyes still closed, praying for Jean to go away before he’d let himself do something he’d regret in the end.

But it was hard, so hard—for a boy who’d never been demanding and materialistic, wanting for things other than the ones he’d always unquestioningly been given felt like breaking the rules. But he was too deep to care, and he knew it, and Jean knew it too.

Jean’s lips were on his neck, leaving a trail of breathless kisses all over his skin, and then his hands were sliding back to where they’d come from. Nathaniel feared he was taking them back for a second, but they simply sneaked underneath his shirt and mapped his bare skin. When he slithered them up he caught the hem of his shirt with them, and Nathaniel didn’t even try to protest as he lifted numb arms to allow Jean to take it off.

Then Jean was kissing his neck again, breathing hard enough that Nathaniel couldn’t hear his own deafening pulse anymore—his neck, his neck, his nape and his neck, leaving ghosts of his lips like they were everywhere on him, never leaving.

The low shudder Nathaniel couldn’t hold back was terrifying, but so was the soft sigh he let out, rolling his head to the side and back against Jean’s shoulder to leave more room for Jean’s mouth. It wasn’t the first time he was letting him kiss his bare skin, but he was perhaps the first time he was certain it wouldn’t be enough.

It knew it was a mistake before he even did it, and swallowed back his self-directed anger. He’d given Jean the cold shoulder countless times to prevent this very mistake, and there was he, making it like he was bunny hopping into hell with a smirk.

To hell the consequences, he thought, and he turned around to crush his front against Jean’s, chests bumping into each other with the momentum. Jean instantly took his hands back, but instead of bracing himself for violence like Nathaniel feared he would, he cupped Nathaniel’s jaw and held him there.

The fact that they hadn’t even said a word yet left him smirking in Jean’s possessive grip. Here were they, wanting each other but too proud to even put their cold war to an end. They were yielding for a whim and they were doing it so consciously it hurt.

Still, he didn’t back off when Jean’s nose brushed against his, and he didn’t back off either when he met resistance against his own breath. They were fighting for air, stealing one another’s, enjoying the last bits of _proximity_ before they had to call it something else. Nathaniel’s nose bumped into Jean’s cheek as he lifted his chin, blindly searching for Jean’s lips and meeting only air. Jean’s were backing off where his were advancing, and where he could have mistaken it for refusal, it was provocation—teasing in its purest, simplest way.

He felt like breaking their silence to tell him to fuck off, but he was breathless anyways.

When he reached for Jean’s lips again, Jean didn’t have it in him to wait another second. He’d waited long enough, days, weeks, months and countless dreams that lasted eternities. In his dreams he kissed Nathaniel dizzy, but none of them felt as good as this one.

It was disorienting, like losing all bearings and abandoning yourself to something greater than you. Nathaniel couldn’t tell where they were and how long they’d been doing this, holding back their sighs and searching for bare skin—not when Jean’s lips were cautiously brushing his. They pulled away at the same time, but only to part their lips and welcome each other in. It was warm and terrifying and it felt like falling hard. Nathaniel slid greedy hands under Jean’s shirt and grabbed his hips, fiercely enough that the grip encouraged Jean to deepen the kiss.

Tongues danced and hands grabbed and asked and stole and gave back in startling silence, and the intimacy of the touch was so astounding they couldn’t think.

They kissed. And they kissed. And they kissed again. They were afraid they’d lose something if they ever stopped, and their hearts raced so hard they figured perhaps they would die. They didn’t dare take the risk and simply lost themselves into each other’s touch and warmth and familiarity and broken sighs.

They weren’t partners and they weren’t friends. They were more, so dangerously more. It was terrible to come to the necessity of admitting it, but they could hardly get around denying it anymore. It was over. It was over. There was no going back.

Jean’s kisses made him drunk, and tilting his neck back to welcome his lips should have hurt he couldn’t feel anything. He was numb, comfortably numb, and he thought he might be okay staying like that forever. Numb and possessed and selfishly wanted. Generously given back.

Nathaniel’s chest hurt so hard he wondered if he was having a heart attack. It was in pain, a little more each passing second, and his guts twisted, twisted, twisted—oh, god, he couldn’t fucking _think_.

He pulled on Jean’s shirt hard enough that the order didn’t leave room for doubt, and they pulled away hardly long enough for the shirt to go over his head. As soon as it fell to floor they were back on each other’s lips, drinking themselves to oblivion. He remembered Jean’s words, then, dragging possessive hands to Jean’s hair. 

No, he didn’t need Lola’s wounds when he had Jean. When he _had_ him—so unquestioningly, so fully, so very deeply. It was blind trust and bottomless loyalty, and it felt like being whole. Perhaps they were right about pairs being two halves of one same entity, and he wondered if it would feel that good kissing just anyone. Then he realized he’d never felt like kissing anyone, no one but Jean, and he lost himself in the touch like he could ease his loneliness away forever.

 _I don’t want you_ , Nathaniel thought—but kissing Jean stupid, it was a lie even himself didn’t believe in.


	7. I come with knives (and agony)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little dangerous but young boys are too pig-headed to get themselves out of trouble. There's cigarettes smoked in the dark, things making sense, and a great deal of unfathomable possessiveness, violence and trauma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long, hell. I went back to uni on Monday and the schedules are horrific. Also I rewrote the chapter's first half like, twice. Not sure it's what I wanted to do with it but, hey. Tw for all, there's absolutely non-con intercourse in the last scene and if you're sensitive to that kind of stuff you might want to avoid it. On the other hand, if you've handled Nora's extra content very well, I think you're good to go. It was awkward for me to write (you might feel it), which is mostly why I kept it short and not-quite-descriptive, because Riko's dysfunctional mind is so incredibly crazy that these things aren't supposed to happen, ever, and none of the words I typed felt _right_ or _plausible_. It's—disturbing and fucked up. From what I've read in the extra content, however, that seems right up his alley and it might not be the most terrible thing he's ever done. I don't think I'm writing another scene like that in a while.
> 
> Also thank you for all your support, I'm stunned. I love hearing about your thoughts. You can me reach @ [wesninskids.tumblr](http://wesninskids.tumblr.com). There's also the [fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1157367950/playlist/5unUn7loUTaNOiVJHAYxeM?si=hzN4siqBSB2agI-SY5olQw). 
> 
> French translation:  
> 1\. "You're getting on my nerves."

Nathaniel took advantage of the darkness swallowing them both to turn to his side. He’d been watching Jean sleep for minutes now, and he thought perhaps he’d go crazy if he stared any more. It wasn’t an unpleasant thing to do, not really—trust and warmth radiating from their snuggled bodies, flesh against flesh, unsuspecting—but everything was too loud and not clear enough, everything throbbed and hurt as much as it healed. He needed air didn’t have any, he needed light but couldn’t see. So he stayed, bundled up in the night at Jean’s sides, pressing his back against the anxious and twisted form Jean turned into when he slept.

He could feel strands of hair brushing against his spine, slowly pulling one shiver after another out of him—and the steady, appeased pattern of Jean’s hot breath against his bare back lulling him to sleep—and the hands timidly brought up against his own chest as though to shield himself from night terrors, relentlessly twitching against Nathaniel.

He peeped above his shoulder one last time, twisting as he did to check if Jean was still sleeping, and sighed a little too deeply when eyes squeezed shut in dreamy confusion. Whatever he was losing himself to, it didn’t seem gentle, and Nathaniel couldn’t stand the fact that he couldn’t help it. He lingered a couple seconds, though he couldn’t see much in the dark, and gave up as he reached out to grab Jean’s heavy hand. Holding his breath, he checked if Jean had noticed through the thick haze of his nightmare, and when he made no move to open his eyes, wrapped Jean’s arm around his naked waist. Jean’s trembling ceased in less than a minute.

It was insanely comforting, having Jean’s warm skin against his own, the kind of comfort he’d never known he needed and still refused to want. He abandoned himself without protest for once, knowing it was safe to be selfish when the darkness held him like his dead mother. Fiercely, without compromise. He took the time to wonder what she’d think, seeing her only son willingly letting his guard to let a boy in, a boy like Jean. Perhaps she would have been harsh and terrible like he knew she could, though he entertained, for a short second, the naïve possibility that she might have been content. That he wasn’t truly alone anymore—that he’d be fine.

Grief found an unexpected path through his chest and settled there, a little too comfortably for his tastes. He hadn’t really lingered on the loss since he’d let himself cry in Jean’s car—or rather, hadn’t been able to hold back exhausted tears—and Nathaniel thought he might choke, right there under the soft sheets, missing his mother more than he’d ever had. It was stupid and irritating and didn’t go nowhere, needing someone whom he’d never needed before, someone he couldn’t have anymore. Nathaniel made it excuse enough to tighten his own grip around Jean’s wrist, pulling his unmoving arm closer to his chest like it could ease the pain away.

Maybe it did. He couldn’t tell—he fell asleep within seconds.

*** 

Kissing a boy couldn’t be that dangerous, could it?

He wasn’t going to ask Jean, and he knew better than to ask Kevin. He could already guess the words, harsh and stern, falling upon him like an unsuspected storm. He didn’t need Kevin to highlight Nathaniel’s stupidity—he needed answers. Exits, perhaps.

Not that he really had any time to linger on the thought anyways. Riko was working them to the bone, mercilessly aiming for perfection. The kind only a Raven would strive for—and obtain. Nobody complained, they were it for the sole purpose of becoming champions, and they were willing to put up with Riko’s temper and the Raven’s terrible system, schedules and rules to get that golden place on a pro lineup.

For those who were already guaranteed to succeed, someone like Nathaniel, watching it from afar couldn’t get any more boring. Oh, he did love Exy with all his heart, perhaps more than a boy should, but growing up alongside Kevin had this dangerous side effect and he didn’t mind. Only, he couldn’t _bear_ the thought of not taking any part in it, of standing in the sidelines while life happened. He wanted the rush of adrenalin, he wanted he success, he wanted the fans losing their minds over a last-minute goal or a cruel body check. He wanted the fairness as much as he did the unfairness, he wanted blood, blood, violence and the chaos in his breath. He wanted it all—he wanted to be great.

How great could he be, sitting on the bench five feet from Coach Williams, casual witness of a mediocrity that he couldn’t even perfect? He was a gun without bullets, a lethal weapon put away in the closet. This far from the court, he wasn’t of any use and they knew that.

“How are they doing?” the Coach asked, and Nathaniel arched an eyebrow like the question didn’t make sense. Williams asked it like he’d just arrived, but he’d been standing there for long and quiet minutes. Assistants were taking notes on the neighboring benches, keeping track of the score and putting together future drills.

“Wouldn’t you know?” Nathaniel mumbled from his place. He didn’t want to look up, he didn’t want the pity he’d reserve for someone who couldn’t play. Someone who longed for it.

“I’m asking for your opinion,” Williams said, and when Nathaniel made no move to reply, he went on, unshaken. “You’re worth more than you know.” Nathaniel knew his own worth a little bit too well, but he didn’t mind correcting him. “It’s hard, watching you wait for permission.”

Nathaniel could taste a soft tang of bitterness on his coach’s voice, but he didn’t address it. It wasn’t like he was benched for a game or too, or punished for being reckless as he always was. He simply wasn’t old enough to join the lineup, to enroll in Edgar Allan University. It was a matter of days, of months, of years—and each passing second pushed him closer to his goal.

He’d never be captain, not with Riko in the team—and deep down, he thought Kevin would make a better job than he possibly could. Kevin’s entire existence resolved around Exy and he never allowed the least distraction. That’s something Nathaniel could have said about himself, perhaps—before Jean came in the picture. Now it was far more complicated than it should be, and he knew that, and it drove him crazy.

Somehow he didn’t mind having his future narrowed down to the limits of Riko’s acceptance. He didn’t mind being second, or third in that matter, as long as he could play as much as he wanted to—as long as he could win and do it fiercely. People like Nathaniel didn’t have anything left to lose, and that’s what made them so terribly dangerous.

Now he felt like he had something to lose, something he’d never asked for, and every step he took felt like a deadweight he’d drag behind him until the very end. Sometimes it was unbearable and sometimes it was not, and days like this Nathaniel couldn’t quite make up his mind—so he stayed quiet.

“You’ll do great things, you know?” Williams kept going, eyes following the ball as it was passed from one Raven to another on court. “Assuredly greater than most these champions ever will.” Calling slacking Ravens champions should have been an insult in Nathaniel’s ears, but Williams was turning it upside down, and effectively so: if they were champions, which Nathaniel fully knew they were, then he was something a little bit outlandish than that. He was reserved for more, for always more; something bigger than glory, something heavier than success. It was like he was born for it, and that was the only kind of champions Williams believed in.

Nathaniel nodded in silence, unwilling to join in the conversation. It was bound to derail one way or another, and he certainly didn’t want to give Williams the perfect opportunity to pry. He knew the man well enough that there was no such thing as dislike between them—in fact, Williams like Nathaniel a little less like an athlete and a little more like a son, which Nathaniel blamed it on the everyday factor. He’d been there since he was ten, and Williams, like many, had watched him grow in front of his curious eyes. Still, Nathaniel didn’t like to share; brag, brawl and rile up, that he could, but sharing always felt like something dangerous, something he realized he’d done with Jean many times. One too many, for sure.

It wasn’t quite about having secrets. It was about being willing to acknowledge them, about being ready to let people in and burn everything to the ground when they eventually left.

With parents like Mary and Nathan Wesninski, Nathaniel knew better than to trust.

He didn’t have to ignore Williams’ affectionate speech for too long, because the Ravens gathered in a clean circle and gestured one after the other. Riko move chin and arms, harsh hands and swift racquet, pointing at jerseys Nathaniel could redraw eyes closed. He could sense the tension from over here, and didn’t miss the distracted glances he got from a few. Riko would make them jumpy; but Nathaniel would keep them still. The contradiction was frustrating at first, but it was effective enough to tell whom of the two they feared most.

The conclusion, very often, was both. They didn’t exercise the same type of violence and intimidation, not really, and used it for such different reasons that no one could be expected to take sides. In Evermore, there was no such thing as unity; only distrust and preservation instincts. With Riko at the head of the Ravens, there was more to fear on the court than in Nathaniel’s cold eyes.

Then someone else turned their head, too, following the mindless motion like humans were expected to; and he caught Jean’s gaze. The way Jean’s face softened was hard to miss even from afar, and Nathaniel straightened in response, crossing the arms he’d casually rested on his knees to watch the players discuss.

They might have stared a little longer, without any meaning to it, if Kevin hadn’t harshly elbowed Jean to bring his attention back to the game. Practice wasn’t over until Riko said so, that much Kevin knew—but Nathaniel sensed something heavier, hidden in the way Kevin kept his shoulders tense long after Jean looked at Riko again, something hidden in the disapproving frown and the unsympathetic green of Kevin’s eyes. And though Nathaniel might have taken this as an opportunity to start a fight—or add this to the bottomless list of grudges he held against him—he did not. Kevin’s stance screamed warning, and in a home that never screamed anything else, he couldn’t quite understand why.

When the Ravens were sent to the lockers with Riko’s permission and Tetsuji’s nod from the corner of the court, everyone trotted back to the benches to grab their gear. Nathaniel instinctively grabbed Jean’s and followed him to the tunnel, but he went to the gear room instead of the lockers, unwilling to put up with Kevin’s stare again.

***

Sitting on the ground in the middle of the wide corridor, Nathaniel pulled his knees back and took advantage of the time to think. Only three days after the Ravens’ victory, there wasn’t much he could possibly think about and his thoughts, though he pretended to try not to, irremediably wandered back to their hotel room.

Or rather, the hotel bed they’d shared and were never meant to.

It hadn’t felt like a sin back then, and truly, it didn’t feel like it now either. They hadn’t kissed since that night, and they’d predictably pretended nothing had happened. Not quite out of shame or discomfort, but because it was all but necessary—the two of them, discussing such a thing? It would be like pointing at the sky and saying, _what’s above?_ It was questioning what didn’t need questioning, adding weight and meaning to what had not.

But then every time he closed his eyes he could feel the warmth of Jean’s lips running across his scarred skin, mouthing wet kisses like he wasn’t infinitely broken, infinitely hurt, skin charred and cut and mistreated in every possible way. Jean looked at him like he was something normal, something both astonishing and incredibly banal. Something that’d still be there in the morning. Oddly, though, Jean’s glances held an indescribable kind of respect, like Jean knew what Nathaniel was capable of, like he knew he could break the world in two and tame chaos—where Jean’s unexpected affection lied, however, there was the impression that Jean didn’t mind.

There was no caution, no calculated risk, no mistrust. He was Nathaniel, and Nathaniel was all Jean had ever known. There was no use lingering on the life he’d left back in France, on the parents that had sold him to the Moriyamas to clear their debts, no need to miss the things he once had but didn’t anymore. Because here, where owning anything was punished, he had Nathaniel—and it was far more than anyone would ever. It was all at once.

Someone kicked his shoe and Nathaniel looked up. Jean was standing there, holding a black towel in his right hand and looking down at him. There was something familiar in their exchange, a bit like weariness and a bit like wont.

“How bad was it?” Jean guessed at the unimpressed coldness in his eyes.

“Have you seen Kevin?” he answered instead. Talking about the Ravens’ mediocrity wasn’t worth it, not now anyway.

“Like every day,” Jean mused with his usual mocking tone. Nathaniel easily ignored that. “He’s still in. If you’ve been sitting there like a hobo since then, you should have known.”

“I know,” he said, and that was it.

“So you’re not searching for him.” Nathaniel didn’t grant him any answer still, so Jean sighed and crossed his arms. Ironically, he looked a little like Kevin as he did. It was Nathaniel’s cue to get up, not liking the way Kevin and Jean’s heights made him feel weak, but before he could fully push himself off the ground, Jean already had a hand wrapped around his arm, pulling him upwards.

Sometimes he’d forget about how strong Jean could be, too—like any other Raven. The fair reminder stayed deep in his flesh, along with the invisible print of Jean’s fingers, fiercely digging in the skin to get a grip. The pain was hollow and he didn’t mind it, but it was distracting. He wondered how painful Jean could have made it.

“Did he start another fight?” Jean asked once he crossed his arms again, though they both knew Nathaniel was the instigator of the four.

Nathaniel dusted his sweatpants and frowned like he’d been fed nonsense. “Not quite.”

It was close enough, but _fight_ wasn’t the term for it. It was more like the cold wars Jean and him mastered, but without the sense of necessity. Really, Nathaniel and Kevin could neatly ignore each other for no more reason than being slightly irritated with each other’s attitude, which happened a little too often—but didn’t need the conflict to explode for it to come to an end, unlike Nathaniel and his partner. This, somehow, wasn’t casual avoidance; it was like Kevin was waiting for it to be too late to tell Nathaniel _I told you so._ He wondered if Kevin had ever said something other than this.

_I told you so, I told you so. You should have listened to me. You’re doomed, angry boy, and I told you so._

Nathaniel couldn’t help but smirk at the thought. Kevin was the closest thing he had to a friend, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t take the liberty to fiercely hate him from time to time. He did so religiously, in moderation—lively, too, like it was something that required both care and application. Hating Kevin Day was a full-time activity.

For a moment, as he processed the thought, Nathaniel contemplated leaning against Jean’s shoulder to choke a sigh. He tilted his head, half-ready to; but the locker door opened and he was swiftly brought back to reality. He looked up at Jean like he could be seen through, but Jean only merely stared back.

“Let’s go,” Jean said. It would have sounded like an order from anyone else, but he knew Jean too well. He peeped inside the locker room as the door slowly shut, caught a glimpse of Kevin’s athletic thigh and frowned. He didn’t know when they’d confront each other, or if Kevin ever would decide to, but it didn’t bode well.

*** 

It should have as easy to pick up as splattered blood against white tiles, but Nathaniel only realized it when they gathered to eat dinner in one of the kitchens. Today had been a busy day and Nathaniel had unwillingly spent half of it studying, as had the Ravens between practice Nathaniel wasn’t part of today. He’d only played with Kevin and Jean in the morning, and he already hated the increasing gap between himself and his brothers as they slowly drifted away from him and closer to the Ravens. Whether he wanted it or not, being an official team member meant befriending the Ravens more than they already did, and Nathaniel didn’t think it was possible until Jean and Kevin had joined the lineup for good. Now it felt like being pushed aside, and it felt as bitter on his tongue as it did on Riko’s.

Surely, his tattoo was property mark, and he wasn’t naïve enough to think otherwise—but there was something else, something that he was willing to believe. Riko hadn’t handpicked them so to say, but he’d chosen to mark them, and he’d chosen to associate his name with theirs. Wesninski, Day, Moreau—the Perfect Court, was it? Riko was King and he had his knights sitting at his sides, eating in clean silence. Above the coldness of Riko’s mistreatment and the unfairness of Raven rules, Nathaniel could see more; he could see how much Riko wanted to benefit from his skills, from his natural talent and innate violence—Nathaniel Wesninski was a weapon, and Riko was definitely just as mad as he was not to be able to use it.

That softened the edge of his frustration, surely—but brought his attention back to another problem, one he should have noticed the day Kevin had shared knowing looks with Jean in the weights room. Kevin had been able to sense that something terrible was getting closer, and Nathaniel had falsely assumed it’d been brought back to the surface when Riko had barged into their bedroom and tried to beat them both. Or Jean only, perhaps; but foolish was it then to assume Nathaniel would stay out of it.

Now he could see how uncomfortable Kevin was getting, and it was unbearable. Though Riko didn’t look up more than that, conscientiously eating his healthy plate just like Kevin would, there was something awful in the air.

Nathaniel put his fork down eventually, but nobody noticed but Jean. He gave a side glance then dismissed it, mistaking it for Nathaniel’s casual disinterest for food. Forcing his partner to swallow enough nutrients was vain, and he’d learned that months ago, so he focused back on his own plate and Riko soon filled the silence with acrid comments on today’s performance and which Ravens he thought would bring the team down.

Kevin, on the other day, clinically removed himself from the conversation, and Nathaniel stared until he felt the weight of it. He looked up tentatively, like he didn’t quite want to cross his eyes, but did anyways. The way his jaw clenched was hard to miss after years of thorough observation.

“I’m going to the toilets,” he said—but Riko was there and he couldn’t afford privacy. Before Jean would naturally get up out of automatism, he gave Kevin a knowing look. “Kevin? You told me you wanted to go, too. Hurry up, I’m not waiting for you.”

Jean frowned as he looked at Nathaniel: they’d spent the last hour together and not once had he seen the two of them exchange a single word. But now Riko was staring, too, and Kevin knew better than to both dismiss Nathaniel and call him out on his blatant lie. He reluctantly put his fork down, face already tense in aggression.

The trip to the bathroom was short and unpleasant, but before they could pass the door, Nathaniel grabbed his collar and slammed it against the nearest wall.

“What do you think you are doing, Nathaniel?” Kevin growled, sternly, like he was making a lethal mistake.

Nathaniel knew better. Kevin could be violent and his arms were sheer iron, but he couldn’t be as dangerous as a Wesninski if he tried. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” he bit back, awful, and wrapped two dangerous hands around Nathaniel’s wrists. Kevin’s touch was far less satisfying than Jean’s, especially when he squeezed tight enough to stop Nathaniel’s blood flow. He loosened his own in response, but neither of them let go.

“Tell me what you’ve been holding back for days. I’m tired of your silence and disapproving stares. Straight up come to my face and gather enough bravery to tell me what’s so terrible or don’t do anything at all and leave me alone.”

“You don’t get it,” he snapped, and the way Kevin curled his lips was almost hateful.

“I don’t,” he agreed. “So hurry up and tell me.”

Kevin looked to the side—and though Nathaniel first thought he was checking for lingering ears despite the empty corridor, he eventually figured Kevin was weighing pros and cons. He didn’t think it would be that easy, but Kevin frowned, eyes lost in the distance like the words would be painful.

“Riko can sense it, you know? That something’s wrong.” Nathaniel frowned in his turn, confused enough that his grip loosened fully. He kept a flat palm against Kevin’s chest as though to dissuade him to escape, but it was useless; Kevin was letting go of the truth. “I know how he is. I know how he can be. He acted the same when he suspected Thea and I were a thing.”

Nathaniel didn’t understand how they’d been able to get away with their relationship, then. If Riko had picked up on it then he’d been right. “You’re still together,” he mumbled in confusion, low enough that nobody could hear them without approaching.

“He doesn’t know that.” Kevin paused to bring emphasis to his words, giving Nathaniel the time for the words to sink in. “We agreed to stop until she’d graduate. That was the only way to get away with Riko’s suspicion and disapproval.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Nathaniel tensed, all ready for violence if Kevin gave him a reason to.

“You don’t get it don’t you? What you’re doing with Jean, whatever it is. It’s going to bring you down and it won’t be pretty.” Nathaniel was about to protest, but Kevin raised his voice to make sure he wouldn’t. “I don’t know any of you are aware of what’s happening, but I don’t think you’re stupid, either. You being a highly-functioning pair on the court doesn’t mean Riko won’t pick up on what you’re doing off of it.”

“And what are we doing?” Nathaniel smiled, and it was a clear threat Kevin was clever enough to recognize. He didn’t back off for all that—it was too late.

“Don’t play stupid with me. Coach Williams asked a Raven to bring Jean his jacket, back at the hotel.”

“So what,” Nathaniel pressed, exasperated.

“He wasn’t in his room.”

Nathaniel stepped back, ever so slightly, and shrugged a bit more brutally than he should have. There was clear defense in his movements, and his fingers were already twitching with the urge to grab his pocket knife. He could almost feel it swing between his fingers, flipping off and on with natural ease.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Listen, I couldn’t care less what you two are doing.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because I don’t want you to die, okay?” The hyperbole was obvious—but somehow, with the way Kevin’s gaze hardened with a worry he didn’t know how to show otherwise, Nathaniel wondered how far Riko could go.  “Promise me you’re going to stop that.”

Nathaniel snorted. “I’m not like you, Kevin. I don’t fuck girls just because I can.” Kevin blanched at that, remembering a little too well the time when Riko made him fuck one of the Raven girls. There was something he didn’t know about Thea, however, and Kevin wasn’t sure it was the right moment to tell him. “I’m not interested in whatever you and Riko seem to like. Sex is none of my concern.”

It was Kevin’s turn to snort, this time. “Are you sure?”

Nathaniel’s frown was cold and dangerous, past any warning he could have possibly given. He could retrace the entirety of that night at the hotel, from the moment he’d sat on the edge of the bed to the moment they’d left the hotel in the buses. Jean and him had kissed, and that was it. That was all of it.

“Positive.”

It wasn’t as aggressive as Nathaniel would have liked it to be, but he was still too shaken from the conversation to find the right words. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t that. Still, he believed what he was saying—he wasn’t like Kevin, and he wasn’t like Riko, who’d shared a girl to deal with their hormonal spurts. Nathaniel was simply, purely unconcerned—he would have joined, otherwise.

“Then stop it before it goes too far. Riko won’t hesitate to use it against you both if he figures that’s the most effective way to make you listen.”

“He can’t,” Nathaniel mumbled through gritted teeth, but he knew it wasn’t quite right.

“Watch him. He’ll pit you against him and will only say _stop_ once one of you is beaten unconscious. He’ll break you both.”

“If he does that, his pair of backliners won’t be worth much anymore.”

“Do you think it’s worth more if his backliners slowly slip out of his control? Riko’s clear. You don’t get to be distracted. By _anyone_.” He sighed, more exhausted than angry. “If you need to let it out just tell Riko and he’ll find someone.”

Nathaniel winced but didn’t answer, too caught up in the imagery of Jean sprawled on the ground, bleeding and unconscious. Nathaniel was well acquainted with violence, possibly more than any child could ever be, but it bugged him for some reason. That felt like something he wouldn’t forgive himself for ever doing. He wondered if Jean would.

“You don’t realize the power you have on him. He’s naïve, he doesn’t know. But you—you know better than this, Nathaniel. You’re not that stupid. You tilt your head and suddenly he’s staring. You scratch your neck and then he’s not there anymore. You might feel like it’s an asset on the court, but remember you’re not on the court yet. Riko doesn’t have any reason to tolerate it.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Everything Kevin was saying was painfully true and he knew it too well.

“It was okay when you were learning to work around each other, doing everything the master ever expected of his pairs. But now—now it has to stop. He knows something’s wrong. Why do you think he punched Jean the other day?”

Nathaniel’s face went livid in a second, piecing everything back together. Kevin’s warning look, Riko’s violence only targeted at Jean. It was a punition—or a final warning, and it was for him. It made sense now.

Riko was terrifying, a child who’d never been wanted and who’d never been told no. A king before his time, a dictator in black suits. A pretty face that screamed terror. Riko wouldn’t hesitate to punish them both, and though Nathaniel could take any violence Riko would give him, he knew it wasn’t Jean’s case. Jean had lived somewhere else, he’d grown up, he’d felt things and seen others, and there was even a tiny but unneglectable possibility that he’d even been happy. Jean hadn’t been born to suffer, he hadn’t been brought up to bear and inflict and recognize violence—he wasn’t an instrument of death, he was just a kid who came across a fair amount of bad luck.

It was enough for Nathaniel to hold his ground back. The way he leaned forward shouldn’t have intimidated Kevin given their heights, but it did still.

“Nobody’s touching Jean.”

It was a warning, but it felt like a promise.

*** 

Though Nathaniel made a good job at staying far enough from Jean, he did a less effective job at ignoring Riko. He stared whenever Riko crossed the room, Kevin at his sides, holding Riko’s stares with innate provocation, hesitating a second too long when Riko ordered him on the court. It was the only way to put up with Riko’s rules, and it was exhausting enough that Nathaniel didn’t think about kissing Jean’s neck anymore.

For a reasonable time, at least. Sitting on the ground back against the wall in the quiet darkness of their bedroom, it was hard to escape. Jean couldn’t sleep, either; his home game was tomorrow and he rarely ever got any sleep on night games.

“What’s troubling you?” he asked as he let himself slide against the slide, at Nathaniel’s left.

They were close enough that every part of their bodies touched, but far enough that Nathaniel didn’t mind.

He took a drag on his cigarette, unable to care for the smoke alarm. It wasn’t wise to smoke in their bedroom, but right now, he couldn’t care less. He took another long, patient drag before he spoke up in response.

“You,” he said.

Jean laughed softly, something so short it was almost painful to hear. Nathaniel wanted to hear it again, but it was already gone.

There was no surprise in their exchange. Jean, troubling Nathaniel—that was far from being new.

“I trouble you greatly,” Jean recalled mindlessly as he rested his head against the wall.

Both stared at the darkness without aim. There was no discomfort in their silence; it was like being two halves of something bigger. It felt good. It felt like home.

Nathaniel’s honesty was naturally troubling, and though Jean had a long experience in dealing with it, it still felt odd to hear the words. Thinking that he, Jean Moreau, was important enough to trouble Nathaniel, was something he thought he might never get used to. Nathaniel loathed people, at best—but nobody ever troubled him.

And certainly not like that.

Though uselessly, Nathaniel turned his head towards Jean and stared. There wasn’t much to see in the dark, but he still studied Jean’s profile like it was the last time he could. It was a pretty, delicate thing, like a sculpture from far-off centuries, something carved in ice or marble perhaps. Jean was refined, untouchable, a work of art one could only truly notice if they took the time.

It was a strange kind of beauty; and Nathaniel suddenly felt out of place. He’d grown with his father’s blood money, yes, but he’d never been as acquainted with the rich lifestyle as Kevin had. Jean looked like someone who listened to Chopin in his spare time, someone who’d read Philosophy books and go to art museums for the beauty of it.

“Tell me something in French,” Nathaniel simply said, and took a drag without tearing his eyes off.

He saw Jean scratch his nose, absent-mindedly, then turn his head in his turn. They didn’t blink.

“Tu m’énerves,1” he said, and let out half a sigh.

Nathaniel’s lips curled up in a smirk when he recognized the sounds. Jean looked exhausted, like thinking about him was draining his energy. It was satisfying, yes—but then Jean held up a hand and ever so softly brushed a finger against Nathaniel’s right cheek, and he lost his smirk instantly.

He’d forgotten what it felt like, having Jean’s hands on him. It was merely a caress, but it was more than Kevin had allowed him to accept. He closed his eyes, thinking perhaps he would feel guilty to bending the rules if he did it so eyes shut. Somehow it was avoidance enough that Jean took his liberty, and he cupped his cheek, gently brushing a finger over his lips.

“Tu m’énerves,” he repeated, seriously enough that Nathaniel opened his eyes again.

“I didn’t do anything,” Nathaniel mindlessly defended. He looked absent, but his heart was racing a little too fast.

“I know.”

They stared without a word, conversation only filled with the soft sounds of skin brushing skin. Jean slightly pulled on Nathaniel’s lower lip with the tip of his thumb, and Nathaniel let him do so, breathless—then they parted and he swallowed, disliking it whenever Jean retreated, even when it meant they were safe a little longer.

It felt like something worth punishing Jean for, so he took a thorough drag on his cigarette and leaned a bit closer. Jean instinctively turned, and he blew the smoke right at his lips. Jean coughed when Nathaniel leaned back, and he watched, satisfied, resting his head against the wall like Jean had.

“You’ve never smoked,” Nathaniel figured. He wasn’t one to talk, but that Jean already knew.

“I’ve done other things,” Jean defended as he coughed once more.

“What have you done?” he asked, and his voice was a bit more provocative than it should have been. Nathaniel could sense it, could recognize the familiar curl of his lips as he smiled dangerously. This one held no violence, but it was just as dangerous.

“Things,” Jean said as he stared back. He looked bothered, but Nathaniel knew better. “Things most people do when they’re seventeen.”

“Drugs,” Nathaniel answered for himself. “Cars,” he suggested, but Jean didn’t protest. “Girls?”

“Perhaps.”

His smile disappeared. It wasn’t like he’d expected Jean to be a stranger to those things—it was something hard even to repress in Evermore, and Riko and Kevin were the living proof. He, on the other hand, had never felt the need to experience those kinds of things. Up until now, at least. It was troubling and unsettling and it felt all the way like an unfathomable risk.

“Were they pretty?” he asked, absent-mindedly, like trying to picture the girls Jean had kissed and loved and broken.

Instead, Jean leaned in and held his chin. “You’re pretty.”

The way Nathaniel swallowed was a little too obvious and he hated himself for that. Maybe he’d been called pretty once in a while, by a smirking Lola, a mocking Nathan or Riko or Kevin, perhaps even Jean himself for the sake of it, but it’d never felt that blunt and honest. Jean was holding his chin like he was daring him to look away or protest, and he frowned, confused—he’d always known he was _pretty_ in some kind of charming, intimidating way; but knowing he was pretty in Jean’s eyes was something else.

He wasn’t one to say thank you and he wasn’t one to say you too, so he said nothing. Instead he closed his eyes, sliding his cheek in Jean’s palm.

The caress came back instantly and they stayed like that for a quiet moment, content with just being. Breathing.

When Nathaniel spoke again, it was with eyes still squeezed shut and a grave voice.

“I’m awful and dangerous, aren’t I? I reek violence and chaos. Why don’t you fear me?”

“I fear it,” Jean corrected. “But I know you aren’t going to hurt me.”

“I’ve hurt you before,” Nathaniel protested, and he snapped his eyes open.

“Not like you’ve hurt others. It’s different.”

“How can you be so sure? I could kill you right now, if I wanted to.”

“Do you want to?” Jean asked—and it was so blunt, so empty, so _inviting_ that Nathaniel flinched in his touch.

He took a moment to think about it. Everything appeared to be more convenient without Jean at his sides to complicate everything. But he wouldn’t be able to stomach it and he knew it.

“No.”

Jean smirked like his point had been made, and Nathaniel winced in visceral aggression, looking away to contain it; but then Jean grabbed his face and held him there, firm yet soft, troubling yet so familiar. Jean’s lips on his was like a distant souvenir, and Nathaniel grabbed the front of his t-shirt as though to push him away, but by the time he got a grip of the fabric, he was already losing himself in the kiss.

Letting that boy kiss him ever slowly was terrible, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

Jean’s lips disappeared when his hands did, and Nathaniel stayed there unmoving for a little while, eyes still closed like he was expecting Jean to come back. It wasn’t quite that—it was peace, something he rarely ever felt, and let himself fall against Jean’s shoulder without a word.

Unsurprisingly, they didn’t talk about it. When Nathaniel finished his cigarette, they got up, hid the pack under Nathaniel’s mattress and went back to their respective beds without a word.

He thought perhaps they might be able to get away with it as long as nobody said anything.

*** 

It was a naïve thing to hope for.

It didn’t take less than two days for Nathaniel to snap.

It was during Saturday’s evening practice, one he was allowed with the Ravens—one where Jean was swiftly antagonized by one of the freshmen. It was a meaningless tension Nathaniel had picked up on already, but they’d never done much more than glaring and he’d dismissed the thought right away. He needed too much space for Exy to bother complicating things with every boy stupid enough to give Jean a dirty look. They were past that.

Body-checking had never been something Nathaniel had liked accepting. He was fine receiving violence on the court, as long as he could give it back twice as hard—but whenever it was Jean, it was a little less of an inconvenience and a little more of a problem. Numerous times already he’d acted on it, daring the Ravens to get any closer, and the team had easily blamed it on his temper and his possessiveness. It wasn’t something new around here: Riko acted the same way whenever someone got a little too close to Kevin, except it was more of a matter of a property than it was protection. Still, they’d stood down and kept going.

Today, however, was perhaps the first time Jean was openly drawn to a conflict. He rarely cared enough to get himself in trouble with other Ravens than Riko, and he was slowly but surely getting more and more obedient with the days. Nathaniel was, perhaps, the only thing still keeping his head above the water, reminding him from time to time what rebellion tasted like.

It hadn’t started with much. The Raven’s name was Mark, and though he was a pretty efficient goalkeeper, he was hard to deal with and Nathaniel didn’t like him. He’d never quite known Jean didn’t, either, until they bumped into each other chest first and chin high, daring the other to back off before the other.

Riko had soon intervened, displeased with the interruption of his practice, and ordered them back to their initial positions. Nathaniel’s gaze had lingered, but by next serve, it was already forgotten.

Twenty minutes later, Mark got out of his lines and crashed into Jean hard enough to send him sprawling. Nathaniel abandoned his mark in the same breath, eyes cold as he took the scene in: Mark’s obnoxious smile and Jean’s darkest frown. Black strands well falling on his face behind the grated front, and Nathaniel had never seen him that angry. He was close to snapping, and he knew Riko wouldn’t hesitate to punish him for that.

He thought it wise to snap in his stead, but he didn’t really choose. It came upon him in a second and he couldn’t hold back if he tried.

“Wesninski!” someone called as he abandoned his position, letting the opponent strikers rush to the goal. He didn’t care about them anymore, he didn’t care about anything but Jean.

He rushed to Mark fast enough that he didn’t see him coming. The way he was slammed against the wall made some Ravens jump and everyone stopped playing in the same breath, startled by the brutal sound. The walls trembled with it, and Nathaniel hold the boy there, pinned and gripped by furious hands as Jean took his helmet off to inspect the damage, dizzy on all fours.

It might have stopped there, except Jean touched his cheek, dug a finger in, and spat blood on the court floor. Nathaniel frowned like he couldn’t believe the sight, and the look he gave Mark as he turned his head back was so frightening all trace of provocation had disappeared from Mark’s face.

He heard Kevin’s voice in the distance, and the Ravens made a path for him and Riko as they rushed—but it was already too late: one hand was tightening around his throat at a dangerous speed, and the other was holding one his blades, perfectly aimed to pierce through his ribs.

He all but expected Mark’s provocation to flash back upon his face, but he figured some people never learned. “Jealous, Wesninski?”

“Shut your mouth,” he let out through gritted teeth. They were clenched so hard it was almost painful, and it was all he could do not to send Mark to the hospital in a second.

Riko and Kevin had stopped at the sight of Nathaniel’s blade, and Jean was standing a meter away, dumbfounded as he watched, never truly getting used to Nathaniel defending him—certainly not when it came to Exy, which was well-known for his mindless violence.

Mark laughed, unconcerned. He was beyond stupid. “I understand, I understand. I’ve seen him in the showers, too.”

“You better shut your fucking mouth,” Nathaniel tried again, pushing his blade deep enough that it cut a tiny hole in his jersey.

But Mark only laughed in response, and though Riko and Kevin were too far to make out the words, Jean heard them distinctly. “He must be so fucking good in bed if you’re willing to defend him like that.”

“Shut up!” he yelled, and this time the blade tickled skin.

“Afraid I’ll break your pretty boy?” Mark smirked, but there fear underneath it. Stupidity and pride were dangerous things to have when Nathaniel’s knife was so close to digging in skin.

“I’m gonna break _you_ ,” Nathaniel smiled in his turn.

“Nathaniel,” Jean called in warning, but Nathaniel was too far gone to care.

“You’re going to bed for my forgiveness. You’re going to eat your fingers raw for ever saying those words. You’ll never make the same mistake twice.” The words were calmer than Mark expected them to be, and Nathaniel watched with distinct pleasure as his face lost its last bits of bravery and twisted in pain. The blade was going in and there was taking it back—not even Riko could, and he knew it. He’d punish him for that later, but right now, there was little one could do.

He heard assistant coaches rush on the court, and took a quick second to be thankful for Tetsuji’s absence. Kevin was livid and Jean looked sick, blood tinting his lips like the terrible reminder of Nathaniel’s bottomless rage.

He squeezed his throat so tight Mark choked to breathe, and pushed the blade in one familiar move, twisting the tip from a side to another to leave as much damage as he could. Nathaniel was a boy, but he was Nathan’s son, and they knew better than to try to reason him.

Without letting go of Mark, Nathaniel turned his head towards the rest of the Ravens, and his smile was crazy, awful, the frightening heritage of the Butcher of Baltimore.

“Nobody touches Jean,” he growled, loud enough for them all to hear.

He saw Jean tense with surprise at the words, and the look he gave Nathaniel was lost and confused. He didn’t bother giving it back and brushed the room with one swift look to make sure he’d gotten his point across. Mark was twisting in his grip, but he was soon going unconscious and he knew it.

“I won’t hesitate if you do,” he warned, and when he let go of Mark, his unconscious body fell to the floor in a terrible thump.

Two Ravens rushed to him and a Coach followed, but nobody came for Nathaniel. They knew better. He crossed Williams’ disapproving glare and Kevin’s half-horrified half-shocked eyes, then neatly ignored Jean’s panic.

He watched every twenty-seven Ravens intently, one by one, then wiped his blade on his own jersey and rushed off the court. Jean followed—and Riko let him.

*** 

“Hey,” Jean called, but Nathaniel kept walking. “Hey!”

It’s only when Nathaniel reached the locker room and took his jersey off than Jean could finally catch up with him. He stood there in the doorway, looking all but composed, but Nathaniel didn’t bother acknowledging his presence. Jean knew better than to take offense after all that had just happened.

“Fuck, Nathaniel, look at me.”

He didn’t.

“Look at me, please,” he said—and his voice turned into a plea, and Nathaniel couldn’t take it.

He slammed two fists against the lockers and the terrible sound echoed all around. It was hard to ignore the pain reverberating in his arms but he did anyway, squeezing eyes shut not to look at Jean.

“Why did you do this?”

“I don’t know.”

“That was—are you out of your mind?”

“I said I don’t know!” Nathaniel shouted, and he turned to look at him with all the anger he’d let build up since Mark had gone overstepped the limits of the acceptable.

Nathaniel raising his voice was enough for Jean to calm down, and he took a step forward—one only. Meanwhile, Nathaniel nervously undid all the straps of his guards, throwing them in his open locker without caring to wash them beforehand. He could feel Jean’s worry from a mile away.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. Riko will retaliate and you know it.”

“So what? He can’t hurt me.”

Jean’s next words were unspoken, but he still heard them. Something like _what about me?_ , something he surely didn’t want to answer.

“You should have run away,” Nathaniel said as he wiped the sweat off his chest with an angry hand. “You should have just stayed in France and found a way to escape. You’re stuck here now. And I’m stuck, too.”

He watched, hurt, as his words hit Jean as they were intended to—but before he could feel the sharp blade of regret, Jean’s face relaxed again. He was trying to use reason and logic to ponder, he figured; interpreting Nathaniel’s words the way they never were. The right way.

“You’re stuck because of me,” Jean tried. It was tentative, but Jean wouldn’t have bothered if he didn’t think it was true.

Nathaniel stared back, violent, but didn’t say a word.

“Because now, he can get to you when he never could before,” Jean kept going.

The smart thing was to either deny or force Jean to disappear long enough that Nathaniel wouldn’t care anymore, about him, or about them, about _anything_ —but they stood there, quiet, staring each other down like they couldn’t bear the thought of looking away.

Jean took a step forward again, then another, and soon enough he was at arm’s reach. Nathaniel pushed him, as brutally as it could be expected of him, but Jean stepped forward again. The aggressive motion repeated itself until they got tired of it—and eventually they both grabbed hold of each other.

“I shouldn’t have done this,” Nathaniel admitted, voice low with horror. Not only had he given Riko the proof he needed—but he was slowly, slowly turning into his father, when he’d spent all this time trying his hardest not to. He was sick of being a monster. And he couldn’t—oh, he couldn’t understand how Jean could put up with it, forgive it, understand.

“I appreciate that you did it,” Jean answered.

It was unexpected enough that Nathaniel looked up in a frown, searching Jean’s face for the lie. There was none.

“Does this mean I’m yours?” he said, and gently pulled on the wrist he was holding. Nathaniel pulled on Jean’s in response, as a warning.

“You are Riko’s,” he bitterly corrected.

“I don’t care about Riko. I want you.”

The honesty threw Nathaniel off, and he stared, confused, like he didn’t understand the words.

“I don’t like you,” Nathaniel said finally.

“I know,” Jean accepted. “I don’t like you, either.”

“Then why are you here?”

Frustration was slowly seeping in and Jean could sense it.

“We need each other. I’m the only ally you have. Isn’t that what you told me long ago?”

“You’re not an ally,” Nathaniel coldly laughed in response. “You put me in more trouble than I’ve ever put myself in. Should I congratulate you?”

“You’re only in trouble because you need me. Aren’t you?” Nathaniel absentmindedly shook his head, but it was so weak neither of them really believed it. “Then why did you take out Riko’s goalkeeper?”

Nathaniel looked away. Denial didn’t make it easier for all that.

“Lying won’t get you anywhere.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“That sounds like reality,” Jean grimly corrected. “He can forgive whatever you do off the court, but you took one of his players out and neither him nor the master are going to accept that with a nod. They’re going to get to you.”

 _Through you_ , Nathaniel thought—but it was so sharp in his throat he could only swallow it back down.

“Go. You can still minimize the damage on your side,” Nathaniel said as he examined Jean’s bloody lips.

“It doesn’t matter. I left practice and it’s my fault if you snapped like you did. I should have handled it myself.”

“So what?” Nathaniel snarled, shutting him out again.

“You don’t have to endure this alone. They’ll come for me, too.” Nathaniel frowned, confused, so Jean went on, “it’s useless to part.”

The words eased the sharp edges of Nathaniel’s anger, but they did nothing for the sickening churn in his guts. He could already feel the brunt of Riko’s rage, the bitterness of Kevin’s horror. Perhaps would he even be banned from practice for damaging the Raven lineup—though he doubted it. He was the best investment they had after Kevin, and far more important than Mark would ever be. Banning him from practicing would only damage the Ravens a little more.

He held onto the meek thought that the Moriyamas had always tolerated his violence when it wasn’t disrespect directed towards them and hoped that perhaps they would let it slide.

He swallowed back all hope when Jean left a bloody kiss on his bare shoulder. No. He was so, so terribly fucked.

*** 

Anger gave way to frustration, and frustration soon gave way to mockery. Here was he on his knees, spitting blood with a smile that could crush them alive. Tetsuji had left minutes ago, leaving it up to Riko to punish Nathaniel’s problematic rage—and each blow was a little more painful than the previous one. It’s okay: he was starting to feel numb anyway. His vision was half-blurred and his head was already dizzy, and it wouldn’t be long before he’d fall into unconsciousness a little less pleasantly than Mark had.

“You’re ridiculous,” Nathaniel smiled, blood on his teeth—and Riko responded with a hard kick in his guts.

He spat another cough of blood and the violence of Riko’s kick made him crumble on his stomach. Landing where he probably had a broken rib was all but a good idea, but his arms were getting too weak to hold himself up and Jean was forbidden to intervene. He was standing at Kevin’s sides, both livid as Riko smiled wider and wider with the minutes. The only reassurance that could possibly encourage Nathaniel to endure Riko’s violence was Kevin’s hand fiercely wrapped around Jean’s arm, firmly dissuading him to reach for his partner. Kevin’s knuckles were white with how much force it took to keep Jean in his place. Lucky for him, though Jean was slightly taller, Kevin was the strongest of the two.

“I’ll kill you, too, one day,” Nathaniel cackled madly as he looked up towards Riko.

He only received a just as crazy smile in response, and Riko allowed one last kick in Nathaniel’s shoulder before he stopped. He rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows as they’d fallen, then wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he called for someone Nathaniel couldn’t hear through the thick buzz of pain drowning all the noise, and didn’t even register when two fifth-years hauled him up on his feet and threw him on his dorm bed.

Riko flicked two fingers and a girl entered. Nathaniel was too out of it too register it, either, and though she visibly recoiled at the sight of Nathaniel’s battered body, she was smart enough not to escape. It was a gloomy, terrible thing—and Jean watched with wide, horrified eyes as it happened.

For Nathaniel, it stayed a blurry mess of pain and discomfort—a haze of mid-unconsciousness and distraction. His teeth hurt, but so did his back, his shoulder and his right wrist, and everything chest-down was so painfully numb with bruises and internal injuries that he wondered how long it would take for him to even hold a racquet again. His face was swollen and red with blood, a shiner almost obstructing half his vision—and perhaps was it for the best, when the girl he couldn’t even recognize stripped before Riko’s satisfied smile.

It felt like a nightmare but he couldn’t quite grasp the horror of it, too out of it, too hurt, too numb to even _care_ , and when he tried to push himself upright, the girl pinned him back down. His head hit the headboard in a terrible sound. The groan he let out a minute after was half-hearted, and though his body recognized the physical stimulation, his mind had slipped out of it entirely. He watched from afar in a dissociative state as the girl held his shoulders down and closed her eyes.

His head slid to the side and he barely caught the horror on Jean’s face, two white hands holding him back as he watched, before letting the pain carry him somewhere else.


	8. In my dreams we were elegant and none of us knew pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery’s a long road and it’s paved with hardships. But then there’s Jean, and he seems like the exception to pretty much everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my, god. Took my so long to write this I’m sorry. I spent last week throwing around “I’m writing the chapter tonight” and never did because, I _did_ , but the plan I’d written down for the chapter was much, much longer than expected and it was never-ending. Add my uni schedules and work to that and it was hell. I don’t like a single word I’ve written in that chapter but it’s one step closer to character development and the evolution of this plastic-quality and plot-deprived story, so there’s that. Thanks for reading and commenting y’all, I appreciate it so much I have no words for this. You can reach me at [wesninskids](http://wesninskids.tumblr.com) and I’ll gladly talk with you about anything! Check [the fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1157367950/playlist/5unUn7loUTaNOiVJHAYxeM?si=Nh2FFrPJQsy6hctThwinPQ) for new songs.
> 
> PS: I’ll correct tomorrow. If there’s a _what_ turning into a wild _why_ don’t hesitate to point it out and I’ll correct everything. I can’t remember if I’ve written anything in French, in which case just ask me for the translation and I’ll add it. Thanks, loves.

When Nathaniel opened his eyes again, the brunt of pain knocked the breath out of him. He’d endured Riko’s violence again and again, way long before Jean even came around, but it was hard not to be astonished by the white, dizzying pain in his every limb. He choked on a sick rush of horror as he lifted his right hand to check the damage, examining his bloody palm in the darkness. He needed to know—he needed to know if he’d be able to play.

“You’ll be okay,” someone said from the other side of the room, but when Nathaniel tried to lean on his elbows to check, he fell back on the mattress in a pained groan. There was no use trying; he was just too weak.

A part of him knew it was Jean, despite how broken his voice sounded. How… unusually hesitant, like he profoundly wanted the words to be true but couldn’t promise. He tried to find his own, needing reassurance as much as he needed rest, and everything crashed into one blurry mess of panic before he could even let a word out. What time was it? Where was Riko? Where was the girl? Oh, the _girl_. He put a palm to his mouth to choke back the horror and squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could, thinking, perhaps, perhaps it would be enough for reality to fade out and dissolve into nothingness. _It was a dream_ , he told himself, but he believed none of it. Even through dark eyelids he could still see the far-off flashes of memories he didn’t remember living. Maybe he’d been awake but too out of it; maybe he’d only stayed awake long enough to understand—and then blacked out, exhausted and overwhelmed, body functions still running for the girl to finish. He slid a protective hand to his groin but his hand met the sheets.

“ _Jean_ ,” he choked—and he didn’t know what he wanted to say, not really. It was a cry for help, but at the same time, something far worse than that. It was nothing and everything in the same breath: he wanted Jean to come closer, and he wanted Jean to leave. Not being able to make up his mind was exhausting and he turned his head towards the wall, wiping mindless tears in the corner of his eye with a swift motion of his hand.

“It’s going to be okay,” he repeated.

“Don’t lie to my face,” was Nathaniel’s only warning. Jean didn’t take it.

“It’s over,” he insisted—and the argument was strong enough that it was undeniable on its own. It was over, it was over; healing was the next step and the girl was gone. For now. Nathaniel tried not to linger in the tension in Jean’s voice, like perhaps the word _over_ decimated more than awful memories. It didn’t look like a word Jean would ever use, and definitely not once Nathaniel would ever like.

Jean didn’t ask how he was, but he felt his presence getting closer. It was cautious and slow, and he thought perhaps he didn’t want to disturb him in his false rest; but it wasn’t quite right. When Jean spoke again, arms wrapped around his own abdomen as though to shield himself from the world, his voice was a little more broken, a little more lost, and Nathaniel wondered if he was crying. If he had, anyways.

“That—” he stopped there, choking on his own words. He had to look away from Nathaniel’s battered body to go on. “It’s my fault.”

The words were excruciating to hear and Nathaniel coughed so hard his whole body trembled with pain. He grabbed his ribs to try and ease it, but the damage was already done and he looked up at Jean with horrified eyes.

“Don’t say that. Don’t you fucking say that.”

Jean didn’t try to protest, but the hollow eyes searching for an escape were telling. Jean was reeking guilt, much as Kevin sometimes was, in clean silences that never left any room for excuses. _Kevin_ , oh. He felt the weight of reality coming so hard upon him that he couldn’t breathe, and it was too much, too much, he couldn’t handle it. Jean’s guilt, Kevin’s reaction to come, the lonely, terrified eyes lingering his way without an apology given, because that’s what Kevin had always done and that’s what he’d do now. Though he couldn’t explain it, he felt terribly alone.

He wiped dry lips with his forearm and inspected for blood. Everything had dried up by now, and Jean couldn’t bring him to the showers without Nathaniel being at least conscious. He was stinking, uncomfortable, and he felt like ruins.

He thought perhaps things could be alright if he gave himself enough time—but then Jean reached out oh so softly, a hand gently searching for his, and he flinched so hard Jean stepped back in surprise.

“I,” he tried, but there was nothing to say. He could still feel meek hands pinning him down half-heartedly, and felt grateful he couldn’t recognize the girl. A part of him knew she was part of the Ravens. That they’d have to play together as though nothing had ever happened. It was astonishing to realize he didn’t think he was strong enough for that—he, the boy who thought being strong would never be a problem.

He thought of the laughter he would have gotten from his father, both from witnessing the scene and the aftermath, clapping coldly as his son admitted defeat, weakness, shock, congratulating him for disappointing once again. He knew deep down he had the right to ask for recovery, but there was no such thing as recovery in Castle Evermore. Not under Riko’s watch.

Nathaniel had been punished and he’d sensed it miles away. Somehow he’d only thought Riko would keep it to violence. Shallow, relentless and customary violence. It was way more twisted, way more dirty than his blows could ever be and he felt terrible, like a bird whose wings had been torn off and burned before his eyes.

“Okay,” Jean simply whispered. He could hear the disappointment in the word, but he didn’t address it. Having hands on him—oh, he couldn’t even _think_ about it now. He wondered how long it would take for him to be okay.

It was sickening, he knew it. He could take all the time in the world to let people close enough to touch and brush and bodycheck, but Jean—Jean was something else, and he needed Jean, and he wanted Jean. He needed Jean to touch and grab and kiss him and do all those terrible things they were never supposed to do. If he couldn’t let Jean in, he was alone. If he couldn’t let Jean in, Jean was alone, too.

Somehow he realized this had been Riko’s intention all the way. They’d been asked to share rooms and lineups and everything there was else to share; and they’d done it, brilliantly, even more so than Riko and Kevin ever could. They were the perfect match, way beyond the walls of a court even, and now that it’d come to Riko’s attention, there was no coming back. Riko didn’t like when his shadows tried to outrun him—and he was willing to what it takes to push them further back if needed. Now he’d broken them, he’d snipped the tight link keeping them both together so tightly. The unwavering sense of safety, the invisible privilege held in the looks they shared from across the rooms, saying, _you’re mine,_ saying _I’m yours_ and saying over and over _we’re in this together_. Keeping the world at arm’s reach and glaring when they stepped too close, when they tried to make them part or steal the precious ‘thing’ they had.

It was too easier to destroy them when they weren’t together. No matter how fierce, no matter how dangerous.

“Practice,” Nathaniel tried through gritted teeth. He was on the verge on something, though he didn’t quite know what.

Jean was doing a great job at staying calm and collected, with the help of darkness all around; but his discomfort was easy to point out and there was something livid all over his face, like the never-ending memory of what he’d witnessed.

“In twenty,” was all Jean said. “Nathaniel—”

“No,” he cut off instantly and closed his eyes. “We don’t talk about that.”

The way Jean bit his lip was more heart wrenching than pitiful and he squeezed his eyes shut until he was sure Jean had turned around. A minute—two perhaps? Oh he couldn’t tell with pain throbbing under his skin, urging him to find relief. When he opened them, though, their eyes crossed and he felt shaken all the way.

“I’m going to kill them,” Jean muttered—and suddenly—suddenly there was no fear left. There was only black anger and determination, the same perhaps he’d seen in Nathaniel’s tone and eyes and stance all these months. It was terrifying to see it in Jean, but Nathaniel stared, stunned, his heart racing a little bit.

It wasn’t quite influence. He’d always known Jean had this violent streak in him, hidden somewhere deep inside, like maybe everyone did. The softness he’d provided all this time wasn’t a mask for all that; Jean had simply never had the _right reason_ to show violence. Obedience had always been wiser. Now, with this, there were no such things as obedience or wisdom.

“Riko,” he deduced uselessly, too distracted by Jean’s sudden collected rage to think of anything else. It felt terribly ominous, saying Riko’s name aloud, and a violent shiver shook him all the way through.

“And Kevin,” Jean nodded grimly. He was frowning so deep his face was twisted by something darker and darker with the seconds, and Nathaniel almost reached out to grab his hand. How hurt he was, when he realized he couldn’t allow himself just yet.

It was too soon, too fresh.

“Kevin didn’t have a choice,” Nathaniel defended weakly, but his throat was tight and it wasn’t something he really wanted to talk about. It wasn’t the first time Kevin had done these kinds of things and they’d done a great job so far at neatly ignoring he had. As much as Nathaniel could hold petty grudges, he could never blame Kevin for anything. He focused on the only thing he loved, the only escape he had, and it was Exy—the rest was meaningless and should never matter. The fact that Nathaniel did was unexplainable, and as comforting as it was, it would never be enough for Kevin to overcome his crippling anxiety and face Riko like Nathaniel did. Kevin wasn’t Nathaniel. Kevin wasn’t even Jean. The same rules and conditions didn’t apply—Kevin was a treasure to protect rather than an investment to keep in check, he was Riko’s identical shadow and thus, he couldn’t hurt him. That didn’t mean he didn’t. Not in the way Riko did his backliners, but pain was pain no matter what, and the emotional toll Riko’s tricks had on Kevin was overwhelming.

He could never blame Kevin for trying to survive.

Just like Nathaniel feared his father, Kevin feared Riko, and he had all the right reasons to. Jean was in a good position to understand it, Nathaniel thought, but anger must have blinded him, mixing up with the remains of old jealousy that had never quite fully disappeared.

“No I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill them both for what they did to you.”

“Listen,” Nathaniel said, and bit his lip as he searched for the words. “Kevin couldn’t save me. It was too late and he knew it. But he saved you.”

 _He tried to warn me_ , Nathaniel realized—and it was way more than Kevin was expected to do. He’d tried to warn him, but Nathaniel never listened, so he’d tried again. The signs should have been obvious from afar. The risk was too great and Riko way too resourceful. No Raven would ever question his authority. No Raven would ever say no. No Raven but Nathaniel.

Jean visibly frowned in confusion, and Nathaniel looked down at his clenched hands.

“If you’d tried to help me or push them away, Riko would have been merciless with you. Maybe he’d even have done the same thing. Maybe he’d have done worse.” _The same thing_ was as close as he could get to name the horror. It didn’t deserve a name and he certainly wasn’t brave enough to say it aloud. “I wouldn’t have tolerated anything happening to you.”

Silence answered as they stared each other down for a minute. Then softness disappeared, rubbed out by anger and dryness, and Nathaniel sighed.

“Quit that bravery act, there’s no need playing the hero in Evermore. Get over it.”

Jean snorted, but it was all rage and fury. “Get over it? Do you even listen to yourself, Nathaniel? It’s not someone beating you until you pass out, it’s not someone breaking your shoulder off or banning you from the kitchens for a week like he did once. It’s not something one gets over.”

“That’s how it is, Jean. Haven’t you understood by now? That’s how it is, here. You don’t get to decide. I’ve belonged to Riko for as long as I remember.” He didn’t say Jean did, too, but it was too easy to pick up on his face. It made Jean’s tight expression darken a bit more. “The best you can do is be the most dangerous thing on a court, and once you graduate you’ll be free, whatever Riko says.”

“That’s five years away,” Jean grimly stated. Less than five, really, but it didn’t matter.

“That’s five years closer to freedom,” Nathaniel corrected in the same breath.

Then Nathaniel realized something, and Jean seemed to pick up on it with the way Nathaniel turned his head in the pillow, far, far from Jean’s broken face.

“You’ll be alone,” Jean voiced. It was as terrible as Nathaniel thought it would be to hear such things, but he still wasn’t prepared for the brunt of it and tensed under the sheets. Jean’s empty laugh was unexpected, however, so was the determination in his tone when he spoke again. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

 _You don’t have a choice_ , Nathaniel muttered, or at least thought he muttered—soon enough he was passing out again.

*

Getting up wasn’t as painful as realizing how much Jean was keeping his distance was. He thought he’d be grateful for the space, but he’d leaned on Jean for months and grown addicted to his familiar scent, warmth and closeness; it made the whole process way more difficult than it should have been. He used furniture and walls to get himself upright, but dragging his feet to the court was one of the most painful things he’d ever done in months. The beating, oh, he could take it somehow—but there was something heavy on his shoulders, something like shock and he couldn’t swallow it down or shrug it off, much less ignore it. Jean stayed a meter behind, making sure Nathaniel wouldn’t fall, though unsure what he was supposed to do if he did. They were both too shaken up, and they needed each other to recover from it—but they couldn’t embrace each other and somehow, it made their trauma even worse.

Nathaniel was wrong—getting to the locker room was terrible, but putting his gear on was even more so. He winced all the way through, strapping the guards as tight as he physically could, but every part of his body screamed pain and pain and pain. The Ravens did their best to ignore the muffled groans and nobody lingered long enough to give a look of sympathy—though Nathaniel spotted the soft Raven boy somewhere on a far-off bench, looking with a half-frown like he was torn between going on his way or offering help he knew Nathaniel didn’t want. He settled for the former, which Nathaniel felt grateful for. He didn’t need more attention drawn to him, not with awful bruises and a battered face already proof of Riko’s mistreatment, and he didn’t need people thinking he was _weak_.

Jean’s protective gaze never ceased, he could feel it burning his back with more strength it ever had, and the way Ravens swiftly turned away after meeting Jean’s grim face was telling. Nathaniel chuckled as he realized it, painfully bending over to put socks on, but the dry laughter was soon drowned out by breathless moans and the thought disappeared.

Still, he was proud to see Jean back—the same fierceness and wild eyes he had when they had met as strangers, as reluctant allies. Now the contrast was even more striking: Jean as untamable as he first was, but protecting Nathaniel just like Nathaniel did with him. It’s like their roles had been swapped in the process, turning roles uncertain—leaving no other certainty than their unbreakable alliance, something terrible and threatening that nobody dared question. Obedience was softly blurring in Jean’s mind, minute after minute, pushing him closer to lucidity than he’d ever been since he’d enrolled, and Nathaniel could tell he was ready for violence in his every move. It was amusing as it was satisfying, but he didn’t address it.

Tetsuji couldn’t possibly be content with the way Nathaniel dragged his carcass across the court, too slow to catch the ball, too weak to keep strikers from getting to the goal. His opponent teammates scored again and again and again, and it took ten scores sloppily allowed for him to barge into the court and beat him into efficiency. Ravens looked away as they always did, grateful they weren’t part of the mess, grateful they’d come here on their own will. They couldn’t possibly know much about the backliners’ or Kevin’s background, not much more than privy press did anyways, and secrets were a smart thing to keep within Evermore’s walls—but it was obvious, even from afar, that Nathaniel would never subject himself to such treatments without a good reason. Not having a choice was one, but that, they couldn’t be aware of.

He frowned and fought back all teeth and claws, unwilling to let Tetsuji get around with that without showing his usual fearlessness. It wasn’t wise, and he could feel Jean tense underneath thick layers of protective streaks and newborn violence; from across the court, where he stood in his position and neatly avoided Kevin.

Kevin, he didn’t even look. He’d seen too much. Perhaps he would have let himself be annoyed at the delay Nathaniel was causing on their practice by refusing to fall in line or snapping idiocies back at their master for no reason, if he didn’t already know why. Deep down, and it was the first time, Kevin realized, he wanted Nathaniel to fight.

Practice was all but smooth—it was _terrible_ , and Tetsuji made up for Nathaniel’s inefficiency with supplementary drills he showed no mercy through. By the end of it, Nathaniel was too sore to even breathe, knees so shaky he could have just fallen merely by standing. Jean rushed to his side, but stilled right before they touched, remembering all too well Nathaniel’s violent reaction to being touched.

And, surprisingly, they caught a glimpse of Kevin lingering with a torn kind of hesitation, following Riko’s calm pace off the court but head turned their way, searching for permission, for anything, oh he would even take hatred for all he cared.

Nathaniel stared back with empty eyes, too swollen with pain and exhaustion to be able to react any other way than sheer apathy. Jean took it upon himself to dissuade Kevin with a tight frown that suited Nathaniel better—and somehow, Nathaniel remarked as he gave Jean a quick glance, the boy was more intimidating protecting Nathaniel than he’d ever been protecting himself. It should have been telling and awful, but in his hazy state, it was only meekly comforting.

* 

It was six in the morning when Kevin barged into their dorm without a knock. He glanced above his shoulder before shutting the door, holding it in place with a flat palm like he feared someone would try and follow him inside. It wasn’t impossible to catch Kevin without Riko, but it was rare and dangerous, and they never one another alone if they could help it. This morning, however, Nathaniel didn’t waste his energy wondering if Riko knew about Kevin’s escapade to the red hall, where Jean’s and Nathaniel’s room was at the very end.

“I don’t have much time,” Kevin whispered a little too low for Nathaniel’s liking—it gave him the irrepressible sensation they were watched and heard, spied from within the walls, and he couldn’t tell if it was Kevin’s solid paranoia or conscious risks. Not that it’d change much anyways.

Jean and Nathaniel both had grown into the habit of getting up earlier than most, sometimes to enjoy the stunning tranquility of the Nest, others because they couldn’t quite find sleep in the first place. It had started back when Nathaniel had agreed to teach Jean Raven drills in the early morning, way before Riko was even up, to speed things up and spare their pair a lot of inconvenience and punishments. Nathaniel knew fully that Kevin, despite respecting the schedules with care and attention, was all but a morning person. If he was here before Riko had even opened his eyes—which was a terrible thing to do—it _had_ to be important. If not, then at least interesting.

“You shouldn’t be here,” is all Nathaniel granted. Of course he understood whatever Kevin had had to do, and he was willing to overlook it if they could just forget and move on. As much as it was possible to, at least—but now Kevin was in their room, unwanted, pushing the door shut till his knuckles went white for no particular reason.

“No, but I’m here.”

The conclusion didn’t leave much room for argument: he was there, so he might as well take advantage of the risk he’d already fully taken. There was no going back now, Kevin didn’t want to take the brunt of Riko’s displeasure for nothing.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” Nathaniel snickered from his desk, where he was idly going through Exy notes—but Kevin knew better than to listen to him. Most of the time, chances were Nathaniel’s cold façade was only a test, an easy means to push people away and lessen his discomfort. Kevin rarely bought it.

Though his laughter was cold and terrifying, it was Jean’s calm warning that threw Kevin off. He looked at him where he was standing near his bed, obviously stopping the task of making it. “What do you want?” From someone who rarely ever talked, much less to Kevin, those were words worth listening to, and Kevin gave back an intent stare as though defying him to intervene.

Jean let the sheets go and stepped closer to Nathaniel, casually easing himself in between, in a practical way that would only require the least effort to keep Kevin far from Nathaniel’s battered body. He didn’t really think Kevin was here to fight, but he didn’t really care what he was here for, either. Kevin was Neil’s brother, not his; family was a thing long forgotten in Jean’s lonely mind.

Nathaniel wasn’t sure he liked the easy protection his partner was unquestioningly providing, one he specifically hadn’t asked for, but he chose to ignore it anyways, raising his voice to bring Kevin’s attention back to him.

“I’m waiting.” Sitting on his desk chair, an arm slung over the back, he looked as impatient as Riko would have. Kevin shivered at that thought.

“I just want,” he started, but the words quieted themselves. He sighed deeply, unsure where to start with. Nathaniel was never one easy man to convince, much less to obtain forgiveness from—fortunately, Kevin had never aimed for pardon. When Kevin looked down, he was visibly upset, guilty, broken—all sorts of things that left Nathaniel’s chest tightening more than it should given the situation. “You’re my best friend,” he finally let out, and when he did his eyes were locking with Nathaniel’s without an ounce of hesitation. Fear was pushed aside, uncared for, leaving Kevin unconcerned by the possible consequences of his words.

Nathaniel felt Jean flinch from where he was standing in the side of his vision, but he didn’t. There was only the slightest surprise, almost like a far-off impression of déjà-vu, something he’d foretold but forgotten in the same breath. Those were unexpected words, but they spread in his guts like swarms of minuscule bugs, warming his insides in a nice way he couldn’t quite describe. Not with words anyways.

Kevin, too pragmatic to ignore the harsh realities, braced himself for violence just in case. Nathaniel saw it in the way he dug his heels into the floor, tensing all the way up for the impact that never came. He was simply there, unmoving in his chair, watching like he wasn’t part of the conversation.

It wasn’t an apology, but he knew him well enough to figure it was the closest thing to it. Kevin calling him a friend at all would be unusual and effort enough that calling him his _best_ friend, especially after what had just happened and with Jean’s protective stance waiting for a reason to snap, was an obvious and wordless show of support from Kevin’s side.

It took for a while for either of them to move, and Jean glanced between Kevin and his partner as though searching for signs of conflict. But, surprisingly, there were none. Not even the slightest. Kevin’s gaze was attentive, and Nathaniel’s was thoughtful. Then he nodded and Kevin nodded back, acknowledging whatever response he had gotten from him—and leaving, without a word, much less an explanation.

It’s only when the door shut behind him as he rushed back to his own dorm before Riko’s awakening that Jean finally fully turned to him, eyes squinting accusations. “Why did you let him say that?” It’s not like Jean was a stranger to their friendship, but he could hardly caution it now that he’d been held back by unforgiving hands, fingers dug so deep into his arms that he still had bruises. Kevin should have understood. Kevin should have let him intervene, and help, and save Nathaniel from Riko’s claws if he couldn’t do it himself.

Offense was clear and loud in his accented voice, and it gave Nathaniel the slightest rush of affection, disappearing just as soon as it had appeared.

“Because it’s true.” There was no other way to say it. It wasn’t worth lying, either.

Jean frowned, lost in incomprehension that was a little more deeply rooted than mere confusion. “He’s your best friend?”

“He is,” Nathaniel shrugged in response. Really, it was no big deal. Kevin was his only friend, anyways. The words felt odd on his tongue but he liked them still. Suddenly he was a little less lonely and a little more alive.

“Then what am I?” Jean burst out without warning.

It made Nathaniel’s reaction a bit edgier than it should have been, with his fragile body tensing on the chair. Jean, who was the tallest Raven they had, looked even more immense standing in front of him like that.

But what could he say to that? They both knew the underlying truth they were constantly trying to force out of each other’s mouth. He laughed coldly, perhaps to protect himself from a side of reality he couldn’t escape and wouldn’t deny. “You’re not my friend, Jean.” Somehow it was all there—the truth, spoken and admitted, laid there like a present. Jean should have taken it, but he only stood there, both offended and slightly shaken by what he knew, deep down, was lying in Nathaniel’s casual words.

Tension was created, just like that, as it often did between the two of them. It was a good kind of tension, one that left Nathaniel’s mind dizzy and his guts deliciously churning, a pain so addictive he could never hope for it to go away. He couldn’t speak for Jean, but the way he was looking at him was a little more telling than it should have been, and Nathaniel accepted that without question.

No, Jean was no friend, and they knew exactly why. That they refused to acknowledge it was their problem.

They lost their breaths, staring like mad dogs defying each other—but Nathaniel dismissed him before they could let himself hope for it. He was still too fragile to be touched right now, much less kissed and they knew it, no matter how much they hated the facts. “Get over it,” Nathaniel said, and though Jean snorted bitterly, all mockery, he obeyed. 

* 

Later, that afternoon, another kind of tension grew between Kevin and Jean. It had been there from the very start, and probably even before Riko even planned Nathaniel’s assault. There was only one way for it to come to an end, and none to prevent it. It had to happen, it _had_ to explode like rooting out the evil. It had to be addressed, or rather, it couldn’t be ignored.

Nathaniel tried to intervene, reluctantly sliding an arm between their chests before they could bump into each other, and though the touch made him recoil instantly, it was distraction enough that neither Jean nor Kevin insisted. Instead, they redirected their focus on Nathaniel’s shaken expression, face tight with something like anxiety and disgust, memories flashing all at once before him. Jean’s anger and Kevin’s guilt didn’t make sense when the only thing keeping them together was breaking apart right in front of them, helpless. His other hand, who’d slipped a blade out of his pocket at the very first signs of violence, shook imperceptibly, fingers barely tight enough to grab a hold of the knife.

The fight had taken place in French, a very strained and violent French which only the three of them could possibly understand, and Nathaniel felt grateful that Riko was still in the showers. None of the Ravens put two and two together, both accustomed to mindless violence and conflicts being resolved by any possible means, arrogance and pride and competitiveness often rising the worst of them. As if it wasn’t enough on its own, they looked away, almost too obviously, recognizing the warning as Nathaniel’s blades shone, dimly lit by the locker room neons overhead. That Jean and Kevin felt it necessary to confront each other was entertaining but had to be treated with caution—that Nathaniel had intervened, he who was always the first to show violence, left the changing room in a lethal silence nobody dared to break.

Nathaniel’s calm, as unusual and surprising as it was, wasn’t entirely made of self-control. It was unease, lurking underneath his skin like it was begging to come out, making him tremble ever so slightly in his every move. He thought he could still feel hands pinning his shoulders down—but when he looked, there were only scars on his bare and sweaty skin.

Nobody commented. 

* 

The following day, something rather strange happened again. Not that it was impossible to ever conceive, since it had happened already, to some extent—but Nathaniel, who slipped out of conversations and avoided conflict as much as possible since his assault, didn’t feel like he needed to backpedal out of this one.

More surprisingly, even: it was him who’d gone to meet Richard’s sleepy, anxious form, hardly sitting in the bleachers. He’d woken up in the middle of the night, forced awake by ghostly hands, and something, pride, perhaps, had kept him from waking Jean up for so little. He’d considered it for a moment, thinking about the last time they’d escaped to the court in the middle of the night, but loneliness had felt like something a little less than terrible and a little more than welcome. He’d taken it without protest.

He didn’t feel irritated to find Richard there, looking at the empty court like it had all the answers. Somehow, looking at his pale freckled face and his ginger hair, all he could see were the striking similarities. The only thing distancing Richard from him was upbringing and violence, and he thought that might be for the best.

Richard only realized he wasn’t alone anymore when Nathaniel let himself fall two seats away from him. The look he offered was tense and cautious, like most people around Nathaniel—but it softened almost instantly. Fear was replaced by respect, and surprise by curiosity, and the shy smile curving the corners of his lips was so innocent Nathaniel couldn’t help but stare.

He wondered if he would have looked that sheepish, if things had gone differently for him.

“What’s on your mind?” Nathaniel asked, voice light enough that it wasn’t quite interest and certainly wasn’t curiosity. It was idle, and unnecessary, and for a second he thought he should have said nothing instead.

But still, Richard’s eyes lit up with a kind of softness he found equally disgusting and comforting. “The banquet. We’re supposed to bring dates, aren’t we? If that’s what it’s called.”

“That’s what it’s called,” he confirmed mindlessly. It was more from a Raven’s point of view than a matter of terms; Ravens didn’t exactly ‘date’ anyone. Kevin knew that much. Now, he did, too.

The rule was unspoken, but Richard had felt it too, apparently. “Who are you going with?” he asked, conversational, and though Nathaniel could have just easily ignored that, he didn’t.

He looked back, eyes pensive for a moment. “I’m not going.” That was all there was to say, really. Richard’s light frown was confused and helpless, a little pathetic, too, so he added: “Technically speaking, I’m not part of the team.”

“Oh.” Richard blushed a bit, like he’d never quite realized it, and perhaps he hadn’t. Nathaniel lived here, more than anyone else, and hanging with the Ravens on the daily made it easy to forget how younger he was than the rest of them. His sense of belonging was never affected by practice or age gaps—he was more talented and dangerous than them and the master knew it very well. Moreover, though it was out of fear, the Ravens— _his_ Ravens—respected him and never made him feel like an outcast in the least. If anything, it was Nathaniel who isolated himself, preferring Jean’s quiet than the Raven crowd.

“It’s a bit stupid, according to me,” Richard softly said, like he wasn’t sure he should be.

“According to you,” Nathaniel echoed mockingly. It was light and low, sleepy almost, enough to unsettle the Raven boy at his sides. Surely, he wasn’t as used to Nathaniel’s attitude as Jean was.

“You’re as much of a Raven as I am,” he explained himself though it was unasked for. Thinking perhaps he wasn’t respectful enough, he was quick to correct: “Even more so.”

“Because I live here,” he guessed.

“Because you’re a leader,” Richard frowned, pensively—and he glanced at their surroundings for eavesdroppers. There were none; they were safe for now.

“I’m not a leader. I’m not interesting in leading anything. Riko is.”

The correction was visceral, but it didn’t feel like a lie, either. He’d never been interesting in ordering people around, simply playing and minding his own business. Leading a team as fierce and chaotic as the Ravens meant he had to get into people’s personal lives, be it to solve problems or force them to keep it neutral on the court, and he wanted none of it. He wanted the adrenaline, he wanted the glory and the cameras and the loud, familiar screeching of running shoes against the court floor.

Richard somehow caught the quiet warning, though there was no particular danger, and switched topics with ease. For someone so timid, he was oddly talkative, Nathaniel noticed. “I don’t have anyone to go with,” he said.

Nathaniel didn’t understand the point in pointing that out. On the one hand, he wanted to call it pathetic in its own sort, not having anyone to go with—not even asking. On the other, he wasn’t one to want to go anywhere, certainly not with a date. Then again, Exy banquets were rare occurrences to leave Evermore, and he knew from a fact these were occasions to shine bright. Expensive black suits, luxurious hotels, parading before opponents with that Raven arrogance of someone who’s already won. Somehow he wanted to be there with them and it made it harder to stay behind. Not that he had a choice.

He didn’t answer, not really, eyes so unconcerned Richard probably sensed it even as he stared at the court.

After a short silence, however, Nathaniel sighed. “You have to find someone.” As much as he hated to conform to the Ravens’ ideal of public image, it was his team, and Nathaniel liked perfection almost as much as Kevin did. It was pleasing, having his team so spotless and intimidating, something powerful nobody could possibly weaken. Exy banquets were easy occasions to advance themselves on a win, showing their opponents there was no messing with a Raven. Perhaps it was narcissism, he couldn’t tell.

“But who?” Richard said, voice a little too helpless. “I don’t have anyone in mind.” His blue eyes quietly settled on Nathaniel should have been telling, but Nathaniel had never been good at taking hints.

“I don’t care. But you have to.” He straightened, slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. It was hard to ignore the pain in his abdomen, bruises and cuts coming back to life at the motion, and his face tensed in sudden discomfort. “It’s important that they know we’re a strong entity they can’t budge or beat. If you’re off to the side like a lost sheep, it’s easy for them to get to you—and less for us to make up for it. Intimidation can only work so well.”

He wasn’t sure where he was going with this, and Richard visibly wasn’t either; he didn’t seem like he’d understood a single word, but he nodded still, obedient as ever. The way his eyes fell held disappointment, but Nathaniel missed all of it.

It was hypocritical, for Nathaniel to say those things, really. He’d never really cared about public image, but now that he was closer and closer to being part of the team, he wanted to make things right. Harder, impossible almost, with Jean now at his sides, never leaving him even when they were apart. Public image was something he’d abandoned long ago and he’d never even realized it. Riko probably had.

He swallowed dry, remembering Jean’s pained pleas as he was forced to watch. The way he’d helplessly stretched out his arms, trying to reach for him but never grabbing more than nothing.

“Is romance really forbidden here?” Richard asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He held back a shudder and pondered. “Depends what you call romance.” Nathaniel didn’t wait for the boy to give his definition—instead, he talked about Lydia, and how Riko had quite literally shared her with Kevin. It wasn’t something he was a hundred percent certain he could share with a Raven who wasn’t part of their four-men inner circle, but he had the odd conviction Richard would never tell anyone.

He told Richard about sexual needs and how hormones could influence a player’s game. Distraction, frustration, instability sometimes—and for brothers who shared everything but their bed, it had appeared quite normal to share Lydia, too. She hadn’t minded, quite the contrary; being in Riko’s good grace and hooking up with Kevin weren’t things she could call _bad_. Kevin was handsome, and Riko held enough power to crush her alive. With both somewhat needing her, and giving her something back on the same occasion, she had nothing to lose. Nathaniel didn’t know much more about the topic—if it could be called a threesome or if they’d taken their turn, if they even stayed to watch, oh he couldn’t tell and didn’t really care. But judging by Riko’s attitude when he’d been assaulted, watching wasn’t something Riko found unpleasant.

He finished his short monologue on saying that detached, mindless sexual intercourse was allowed, encouraged, even; but anything stable, long-term and serious enough was too dangerous to ever try. It wasn’t realistic, considering anything like that, not in the Nest, when the only thing that mattered was winning. ‘Strings attached’ were swear words, unsafe to use underground.

As he gave his vision of the forbidden thing, though, he realized, stunned and horrified—every bit of it corresponded to him and Jean, from their codependency to their protectiveness, to the way Nathaniel’s priorities were dangerously shifting from Exy to his partner from time to time. He could feel it, the change: he was softening, then harsher to the rest, and he was conceding a thing after another, slowly letting Jean in when he’d kept everyone out from the very beginning.

He tensed, eyes glued to the rows below like focusing on something concrete would erase the ghost memories of Jean’s touch. He shivered, lightly, finding himself needing Jean’s skin against his once more. He wondered if he could take it or if he had to wait some more. He wouldn’t stomach Kevin or Richard reaching out, for sure—but then again, Jean had always been the exception to everything. Trust was bottomless; affection was unshakeable.

He wondered what they really were. Partners, for sure; roommates, then; and friends, perhaps even, though he’d claimed the contrary. But if they’d settled on the fact that Jean was all but a friend, it could only mean he was more. He could never be less. Jean was everything.

“I’m not pretty like you,” Richard said, blushing hard as the words came out but refusing to back off the path he was taking. “Relationships aren’t going to be a problem.”

Nathaniel should have seen it miles ago, with the weight of Richard’s gaze and how pink his cheeks had become—but he missed it again, hopeless. The only thing he said to that was: “Do you like Jean?” and Richard was so thrown off he physically drew back. Then something like hurt washed the surprise off his face and he looked away, nodding to himself like he was accepting defeat as it was.

“I don’t know,” he said, shyly, and Nathaniel mistook it for uneasiness. He was both asking out of curiosity, wanting to know what the Ravens thought of him; as he was asking to make sure nobody was _that_ interested in Jean. Nathaniel had never realized how possessive he was before that very moment, and he took a second to take it in, stunned by the discovery. It was another reason to hate Jean for, but it was inconceivable at that point. “No,” Richard settled finally after finding some composure.

Nathaniel didn’t believe him.

* 

A week later was the banquet, and Jean was personally asked by Riko to attend with one of the Raven girls—and to the master, he had requested Nathaniel’s presence at the banquet. It hadn’t taken long for him to say yes, surprisingly, but Nathaniel couldn’t tell what was more unsettling: Riko campaigning for Nathaniel’s attendance, or the master allowing so. He’d settled for the former, but hadn’t voiced his disarray, fearing they might change their mind then. Riko hadn’t added anything to his sharp requests, giving no such thing as an explanation for any of them, and they were used to that by now. 

Everything finally made sense when something meekly knocked at their door, Jean adjusting his tie in a well-practiced motion. It was easy to see Jean came from a rich family, in the way he held himself, in the visceral familiarity in his every move, like he’d done that his whole life. Nathaniel, on the other hand, though well-acquainted with luxury, hadn’t had many occasions to put a tie on, and he struggled in silence, unwilling to ask Jean for help. He still wasn’t sure about physical closeness, and he was even less sure if he could trust himself not to ask for more if Jean stepped closer. There was too much danger in there to try.

The girl knocked again and Nathaniel quickly got irritated by the sound. “Just go and open the door,” he growled. A part of him was only obnoxious because Jean was going with a girl, but then again, so was he. Riko had sent Lydia his path, though he couldn’t tell why, and maybe there was no reason to that. The Perfect Court couldn’t be spotted with nobody at their arms. They needed to be flawless from head to toe, even where it didn’t matter.

Jean didn’t bother answering the attack. He finished adjusting his tie and opened the door, and Nathaniel didn’t look instantly. He was too busy rolling his sleeves up his elbows equally, flattening the expensive material to make sure it looked fitting. And when he turned and spotted the blonde, he didn’t really flinch. He didn’t like her because she was going with Jean, and he wasn’t close to any of the Ravens as per say; but it was safe to say it wasn’t much more than childish bitterness.

The girl, on the other hand, looked way too uneasy, and Jean frowned with caution when he picked up on the timid glance she sent Nathaniel’s way, ignored. He figured at first it was just Nathaniel’s natural attractiveness, and he couldn’t blame her for that—but she brought her attention back to Jean and the smile she gave was so well-practiced he flinched.

Then, then it hit him, violently so. He didn’t have the words to voice the horror, but recognition was easy on his face and the girl lost her smile in a matter of seconds. Her eyes were pleading, like she was begging him not to say a word.

He didn’t obey, not really—but when he turned Nathaniel’s way and their eyes met, he only saw annoyance there. Pure, sheer, petty annoyance, the growing and growing irritation of seeing that Jean was accompanied. He didn’t like to share, he never had. Those times he claimed he didn’t want Jean in any way seemed too far away.

Nathaniel did feel something was off right away, the girl tense and paralyzed, and Jean so speechless it couldn’t be anything but unusual. It wasn’t his casual quiet, and it wasn’t avoidance, either. He simply couldn’t bring himself to talk, face livid, even whiter than it naturally was. Nathaniel frowned and tensed in his turn, inspecting both for hints that something was wrong, and didn’t find anything.

The girl, he’d seen her plenty of times before as she was on the lineup, but she played goalkeeper and they never had any occasion to get closer than that, for which he was mindlessly grateful. He didn’t care for her, or for anyone, really. He didn’t question the hint of déjà-vu when he caught the girl’s horrified stare, but only grew impatient at their shared silence.

“Move,” he ordered, so low it was almost a whisper. It was dangerous enough that the girl obeyed in the same breath—and that’s when they brushed, close enough that they could have bumped into one another if Nathaniel hadn’t carefully avoided physical contact. It was enough, however, to catch a waft of her perfume, and Nathaniel’s blood went cold.

It took only a few seconds for remembrance to kick in. This perfume, he’d smelled before. From way too close.

The girl was already gone when recognition hit him in his turn, and he looked above his shoulder, meeting Jean’s horrified gaze.

“What are you doing with her?” he asked, stone cold.

“You know Riko told me to,” Jean defended just as cold.

Jean had seen the girl on court here and there, and he’d been awake enough back then to recognize her instantly—but none of them had said anything. They’d carefully avoided each other, and found it was working quite well. Nathaniel had never asked who the girl was, more interested in Riko’s cruelty than the poor souls he manipulated, but knowing that particular girl was going to the banquet at Jean’s sides was sickening.

“Why did he do that,” Jean whispered, not quite a question, perhaps because he knew the answer already.

“To hurt me.” Nathaniel stared a little longer, unmoving. Now that he’d recognized her scent, everything else seemed to make sense. Riko going to his uncle to make sure Nathaniel would be allowed to come along. Riko assigning the girl to Jean. He was only making sure he’d be there to see that happening, only making sure Nathaniel wouldn’t forget. He, who had naively thought it ended here, was only shaken by the realization it had only started.

When he turned away, Lydia was leaning against a wall in the far corridor, too distant to catch a word but close enough to spot her instantly. She crossed her arms, impatient, and Nathaniel grabbed his suit jacket before joining her. He gave nothing to Jean, then: no look, no word and no reassurance.

When Nathaniel disappeared in the corridor, leaving Jean _alone_ and anxious, he still couldn’t breathe.

* 

“Who?” Lydia squinted to see a little bit better, searching for the silhouette Nathaniel was pointing at with his chin.

“This one.”

Lydia’s eyes followed to the blonde girl in the same black dress Lydia was in. Now Lydia was a fifth year, slightly taller than Nathaniel, and pretty enough to intimidate anyone even without her shameless attitude. She had everything of a Raven, from her dark gaze to her proud stance, and Nathaniel decided he liked her. More than he liked the rest anyways.

He spotted Richard in the far corner, standing next to a sub backliner with braided hair. Their eyes met for a short second but he looked away, cheeks a soft pink that suited him well under the dim lights.

“Meredith,” she shrugged. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing,” Nathaniel let out, in a calm half-whisper that was too distracted to be convincing.

Lydia stared, but he ignored that. She didn’t need validation to go on, though. “She’s been pining on Riko for months now.”

It was just the right words, and it took Nathaniel’s attention in a second. “What did you say?”

“Look at her,” Lydia cackled softly. “She’s so infatuated it’s pathetic. She thinks something might happen if she gets in his good grace.”

Nathaniel slid her a cold gaze, half-amused half-mocking, one that would have intimidated anyone else. Lydia simply didn’t care, she was either too careless or too reckless, and Nathaniel didn’t want to know which. “Interesting, don’t you think? Isn’t that exactly what you did?”

She nodded, a sly smile curving pretty dimples on each cheek. “But I never said I had a thing for Riko.”

She didn’t need to defend herself: Lydia was all but the kind of girl to pine on a boy. Whatever she had done with Riko and Kevin, it had been for the sake of it—for fun, for selfish purposes, and for the privileges that came with it, though there were few.

He thought the conversation was over, for some reason, but then she snorted, arms crossed like she was offended by the sight of her mere existence. “To have a thing for Riko, really. How unoriginal and how pathetic. The poor girl.”

Nathaniel could have just accepted that, except she then added: “The things she must have done for him,” and he went cold all over. At least he assumed Lydia didn’t know and though it was a minuscule victory, it was better than nothing. As things were spinning out of Nathaniel’s control—as if he’d ever controlled anything in the Nest—it was more than he needed to hear, or maybe just enough.

Lydia wasn’t exactly an ally, but Nathaniel was being petty by giving Jean the cold and bitter shoulder, and he really didn’t have anyone else. Kevin was going to stick with Riko the entire night, as they always did, barely leaving each other long enough to lose sight—and Richard, well, Richard wasn’t much. To Nathaniel, he’d gone from tolerable and remotely interesting to drastically dangerous. Not that he meant a threat in any way, not one Nathaniel couldn’t take out at least—but it was still there, lingering in the shadows, making Nathaniel’s skin crawl with rage.

He felt Jean’s heavy gaze on him almost instantly, piercing like he was trying to get his attention (which he most likely was)—but all he could look at was Richard, and the way he was following Jean’s every move. He couldn’t stand it. Having people gawk at Jean felt like being robbed of something, something terrible, and it felt like he couldn’t steal it back. It wasn’t losing control anymore—it was words crumbling, like the universe was made steady by the sole certainty that Jean belonged to him. He couldn’t tell when he’d started to want Jean in such absolute ways, but it was too late, it was done and doomed and they couldn’t be saved.

With easy practice he ignored Jean’s blatant invitation and turned to Lydia instead. Arms crossed on her skinny torso she returned the attention, brows arched in the kind of curiosity Nathaniel caught in mirrors when glancing at his own reflection. It was uninterested, vicious; like she wasn’t thirsty but would still feast if chaos happened, fingers digging in bottomless blood baths.

She didn’t ask, but he could saw her visibly holding the words back. The smile Lydia offered was enough to guess she liked dramatic outcomes, and it was exactly why she was so skilled on the court. She didn’t fear violence—she strived for it, in more innocent and ignorant ways than Riko did. Somehow, she harmless still. “Keep your mouth shut and tonight might end up tolerable,” he warned, a little nonchalantly.

“Oh,” Lydia cackled. “Pick your battles, wise boy, or I’ll start to think you’re the naïve kind.”

He didn’t bother correcting her. There were things she didn’t need to know, not yet at least.

Though the ride was a bit too long for Nathaniel’s liking, ruminating his bitterness made it all the quicker. Instead of claiming the last row at Jean’s sides like they always did for Ravens’ away games and all other events, he picked the bench ahead, safe from Jean’s eyes but still so close he could physically feel the weight of his stare. That they couldn’t cross eyes didn’t mean Jean would hold back, and he really didn’t, piercing burning holes through Nathaniel’s skin in both punishment and desperate attempts at catching his interest. They squirmed from time to time, hyperaware of the proximity that quite wasn’t one, both knowing each other too well to ignore the facts: Nathaniel was being petty, but he was being furious, too, in ways Jean couldn’t possibly understand. Not that Nathaniel really understood it, either. Nathaniel Wesninski was never too sure about anything when it came to Jean Moreau. Jean was a minefield, he was the death trap no one could escape—fierce smile and tired eyes, destroying heaven and hell to make his own.

Many things were out of Jean’s control, now. That he had Nathaniel’s assailant at his arm for the banquet, or that Richard had set a cruel liking on him, none of that he had ever particularly chosen. If given the opportunity to, Jean would claim it aloud over and over again, but Nathaniel was all but one to grant people the chance to defend themselves. There was only cold silence and shivers until provocation sparked, fire nobody could extinguish, and then everything turned into sharp smiles and bloody teeth. They could never speak for their defense until it was too late.

Tetsuji talked to the aides hosting the event while assistant coaches counted the heads stepping out of the buses, all parked next to one another like massive black carcasses. Nathaniel glanced above his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the Raven’s emblem, splashed with a bit of bloody red he couldn’t help but like. These were his colors; this was his team. He’d never trade them for the world.

“Do you want alcohol?” Lydia snickered quietly at his sides when they met again. He’d casually slipped his hands in the pockets of his expensive slacks, uncaring and showing it to the world—Lydia, however, slowly turned into something worth listening to.

“I’m not legal,” he stated. They both knew it, the words were pointless.

He gave her an unimpressed stare, daring her to prove she had any, and she ever so slightly tapped a finger on her left breast. His eyes lowered, though devoid of any heat—and he searched for the familiar frame of something resembling a flask. Now he could see why Riko would find her interesting; she was resourceful and had no care for the rules. Not that Riko liked insurgents, oh, he hated them as much as he loved crushing their bones.

“Interested?” she teased, like a merchant who’d already concluded the decisive deal. She’d earned Nathaniel’s interest and it was enough.

“Perhaps.”

“Keep close, then,” she whispered as aides gestured the Ravens to come closer, all very briefly checked for weapons. His eyes glanced at Lydia’s breast, but she was smiling still and the slit only widened when they let her go.

He did keep close, nervously searching for her in the crowd whenever she took the liberty to go pick up food at the buffet—he kept close because he couldn’t afford not to. Jean was somewhere around, way farther than he wanted him to be, way farther than Jean wanted himself to be. Without him he was bound to fall into a bottomless pit of anxiety attacks, and there was only Lydia for now to keep him above the surface. It wasn’t what he needed but it would be enough for now; so he did as she’d told, never once telling her why.

“So,” she said when she got back, materializing at his sides so subtly he jumped. It was only one word, but he knew what it meant for the rest of their one-sided conversation, and the relief of not being alone anymore in a crowd of strangers was easily replaced by vivid irritation. “You spent a good third of the night looking around like someone’s in to stab you from the back. What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not,” he said. He meant it.

“As if. Be honest for once, just to see. Then I’ll leave you alone.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Oh,” he smiled. “You don’t need to believe me, Wesninski. I’d rather have you tell me how it feels to be around Jean all the time.”

“You tell me,” he answered in the same breath, acid. “You’re paired up too. You know what it’s like.”

She shrugged, hardly acknowledging it. “It doesn’t mean we get along.” Her eyes slid from Nathaniel’s stony face to Jean’s tall figure on the other side of the court, lifting a plastic cup to his lips as he eased himself off conversations. The discomfort between him and his date was obvious, for reasons only Nathaniel and Riko could grasp, but Lydia didn’t seem to notice. “He’s quite a looker, isn’t it?”

Nathaniel considered giving a light, unconcerned shrug—but he could tell where this was heading, and Lydia was one of those girls who were way cleverer than they looked. That she was on the Raven lineup showed enough of her personality—he didn’t need to learn more by making the mistake of falling right into her trap. Being his ally tonight didn’t mean they were friends, and it certainly didn’t mean he trusted her.

He settled for avoidance, something he had mastered over the years of pissing Kevin Day off. “All these teams are so mediocre. It’s a pain to even tolerate them tonight.” He wondered what it would feel to confront them on a court, how easy it would be to beat all of them and how unsatisfying it must feel when his opponents are way weaker than he wants them to be. He didn’t have much time to linger on the thought, however: Lydia was already fighting back, determined as he’d figured she was.

“I mean he doesn’t smile very often, which is a shame. But I can take that,” she nodded to herself.

“They shouldn’t be allowed here,” he growled in response.

“Do you think he’s into girls?” Lydia teased and—oh, he really didn’t _like_ that tone.

“Look at them, parading like they know anything about Exy. It’s disgusting.” The frown on his face was more sincere than ever, though he couldn’t tell what it was directed at. Jean, Lydia, or the teams walking around him like they’d earned their place in Class I Exy. That they’d converted the court into a pathetic, falsely warm set up for a banquet was infuriating enough.

Lydia opened her lips, amused by the double script they were playing and willing to go on as long as it was needed to make Nathaniel Wesninski snap—but she didn’t have to. He snapped on his own, the very moment he and Jean accidentally crossed eyes. Meredith was on his side, shyly asking him to take her to where the others were dancing in pairs, feinting friendliness with nameless strangers, and to the question Nathaniel guessed from afar he gave a disgusted frown.

It was easy to forget what Riko had made her do when she looked so innocent on her own. How dangerous could a man be was only proportional to how dangerous he could make others. She was a weapon worth breaking before it could harm, and Jean wasn’t going to forget that. Witnessing the very proof made Nathaniel’s guts churn in a way he couldn’t explain, and he smirked, lightly, the first positive sign Jean had ever gotten from him since they’d left the dorms.

He couldn’t hear from where he was standing, but the brutal way Jean turned his attention back to Meredith was more than telling—it was alarming. Nathaniel tensed, knowing violence when he saw it. Lydia noticed, too, and they both helplessly stared as Jean put his cup down and shoved Meredith off. It had become harder and harder for Jean to keep himself in check lately, or rather ever since Nathaniel’s assault, violence seeping in like a poison he had infected him with. Nathaniel didn’t feel guilty for it. If anything, he was content; proud that Jean was finally embracing his other side, the one he’d neatly tried to ignore all this time, perhaps to keep them both out of trouble.

And if they had been anywhere but here, he would have witnessed with a sly smile and clapped at the end, the outcome all too predictable. Meredith was an Exy player, but she had nothing on Jean’s height and strength, and the prognostics couldn’t go far with such a blatant contrast. But they were here, in the middle of a court filled with coaches and officials and Exy players, and all eyes were now turned on them both—in a way Nathaniel recognized with a shiver. It was apprehension, tension at its finest, something Jean and him had imposed on one another way too many times for it not ring a bell. That Meredith was the unlucky victim didn’t bother him—but he couldn’t do that now, not in front of Riko and the master, not where the Ravens could be punished for his violence.

Before he could think of it he was already handing Lydia his cup back, punch hardly mixed with the alcohol Lydia had discreetly offered under the table. He was already running across the court, trying to imagine what words Meredith could possibly have used against him to rile him up that way, and the tense frown on her face was the sincere proof that she hadn’t expected such a reaction. It made her reckless and stupid, but it made her innocent, too—as innocent as someone under Riko’s control could be.

Nathaniel didn’t have much of a choice there, or so he thought, when he put a firm and warning hand to the back of Jean’s neck. The skin there was warm and soft, and thumb and fingers tightened to get a good grip. Jean instantly stilled in his hand, both startled by the contact and stunned that it was Nathaniel’s. The way he was holding him fierce, threatening to break his neck at the first sign of protest, should have been terrible—but Jean knew too well how much of a cost it was to touch someone for the first time since Riko’s trap. That it was Jean could only be a reassurance; skin tender and familiar underneath his fingertips, begging for the touch he’d been longing all this time.

“Don’t,” he growled like thunder, quiet but dangerous, and Jean looked down to focus on the warmth of Nathaniel’s palm against his neck. He pondered, slowly drifting back to reality and the dull calm that came with it, he wondered what sound Meredith’s bones would make as they broke and if it was the most satisfactory way to punish her for blindly obeying Riko.

Somehow Jean knew she’d done exactly the same as Kevin, but he’d never forgotten Kevin no matter if Nathaniel had; he didn’t owe Meredith much more.

On the moment, Nathaniel figured he’d intervened to put the Ravens out of trouble, one that could potentially affect their winning position in championships. It was unacceptable, it was—but deep down, though he didn’t want the Ravens to be punished on the ground of bad behavior for no reason, he much less wanted Jean to take the brunt of his own mistakes. He cared, and he cared, and he cared—he could never stop caring no matter what, and the pain of it was throbbing in each of his fingers where they touched Jean’s burning skin. He tapped the fingertips, gently, to reassure Jean—and the tension in his shoulders instantly disappeared. It was better than magic, better than miracles; they were indistinguishable and Nathaniel didn’t even need to word the request for Jean to obey.

When finally Jean let Meredith step back into the crowd, freed, he glanced to the side to catch a glimpse of Nathaniel’s expression. It was cold and untouchable, far, far from reality, but Jean could see through it right away. Stunned, he remembered it was the first time he’d seen him willingly touch anyone since the incident, and something warm wrapped them both, something familiar and reassuring, something they’d missed. Something they clearly didn’t have a name for—or perhaps didn’t want to name.

*

When he hopped back onto the third Raven bus, Jean went straight for the last row. Nobody even questioned it by now, leaving it to the last two additions of Riko’s Perfect Court like it signified a free pass for every blatant privilege the team could offer. They were safe and out of reach, luxurious children of an ideal.

Before he could make it to his own bench, however—something pulled on his shirt’s sleeve and he looked down, aggressive at first, then only curious when he recognized it: the pale skin, the scarred hand, the long thin fingers, the scarred hand and the firm grip of it.

Jean’s eyes were questioning, but he didn’t quite voice the question. They knew each other so fully it unnecessary by now.

They stared hard, unwavering, most Ravens already seated by the time Jean remembered to breathe again. The intensity of Nathaniel’s gaze was troubling as it was unnerving, searching for signs of anger or, objection perhaps, on Jean’s pensive face—but there was nothing but puzzlement. First he thought Jean didn’t want to forgive him for turning his back on him after Riko’s latest trick, but then, then he figured Jean was only uncertain if he should get that close to Nathaniel after what had happened.

They didn’t know how things like this worked. If they were supposed to heal that fast, to heal at all. Help each other heal was the only solution they had, as needy as they were, and they both somehow were aware of the fatality of this fact—but they weren’t quite willing to hate the reality of it. In fact, it was insanely comforting to find constraint in each other’s existence; because even through their fights and bloody wars, they couldn’t escape each other for too long. They were bound to drift back to one another, finally whole again.

The tension in the air, dangerously floating between them, was equally sorrow and tenderness, a strange and unusual mixture that left the closest Ravens watching with distant curiosity. They were used by now, by their odd behavior towards one another, but the intensity of such a mild and wordless exchange was sometimes too difficult to grasp for most.

Lydia hopped onto the bus with another girl, searching quickly for a place to seat but caught them in the process, Jean still standing in the far alleyway. From afar Nathaniel could tell her exasperated sigh and then she was gone, disappeared behind rows of black haired heads and braided girls.

Nathaniel let go of the fabric, and it snapped the duo back to reality. In seconds Nathaniel was pushing himself back to the window, despite his clear dislike for narrow spaces with no exit, and Jean was sitting down next to him, quiet with obedience and relief. They didn’t look at each other again, but they side-glanced all the way back to Edgar Allan, showing without a word that they had all their attention focused on one another, watching their every move, listening closely for the softest breaths. They didn’t touch, not quite, until finally Nathaniel widened the gap between his bruised legs so that their thighs would innocently touch; and just as slowly put his hand on Jean’s inner thigh, eyes too focused on the landscapes blurred by both the bus’s speed and the pitch black night.

He felt Jean tense underneath it, more surprised than furious, and for a moment he looked like he was trying to decide if he had the permission to touch, too—and as he put his own palm over Nathaniel’s, braced himself for a violent reaction that never came. From wariness they went to tranquility, intertwining fingers on top of Jean’s thigh.

Meredith was on another bus, and Nathaniel ghostly smirked at the thought. It was Kevin would had made sure of it, pretending it was an accident as he’d made up a lie to the girl last second. Jean had been there to see, and they’d both understood the quiet message Kevin was leaving for them—it wasn’t enough to forgive him but it was enough for now. More than enough.

* 

The following day at practice, right before lunch, they were both on the sidelines drinking out of water bottles, Jean absentmindedly wiping the sweat off Nathaniel’s cheekbone and forehead with a casual swap of a hand. Nathaniel let him, not even registering the touch as he was so used to it, so allowing, so very fond of it—god, he was lost.

He stared at Richard through the other side of the court, eyes dark, which Jean couldn’t possibly miss.

“I thought you liked him.”

“I sort of did,” Nathaniel shrugged so softly Jean thought he’d imagined it.

“You don’t anymore,” he half-asked, half-deduced.

Nathaniel waited a bit, stared a little longer, Richard neatly ignoring the stare and searching for a bucket of balls instead. Then he turned to Jean, frown all but content, much less amused. “I think he’s into you.”

It was Jean’s turn to frown then, puzzled by the unexpected words, though he was a little less surprised by Nathaniel’s tense face. It was all aggression and rage, and Jean didn’t take long to recognize it. Jealousy stained his face all over, betraying more than Nathaniel’s possibly ever could.

Jean arched a brow, then laughed—a sincere, warm kind of laugh that shook Nathaniel from head to toe. It was so unusual, so very _rare_ and unpredictable that Nathaniel’s anger faded visibly, eyes too focused by the gentle curve of Jean’s lips to really glare anymore. “You’re so stupid.”

“Fuck you,” Nathaniel snarled back.

“No, I mean it. You couldn’t even see it if it was right in front of you.”

“See what?”

“He doesn’t like _me_.” When Nathaniel’s frown appeared to be his only answer, he repeated, a bit less vividly: “If he keeps staring at you any longer I’ll kill him, just so you know.”

At that, Nathaniel turned back around, quick enough that he managed to catch a glance of the soft boy staring and looking away just as fast, embarrassed to have been caught red-handed. Nathaniel opened his mouth but no words came out. There was nothing to say.

It took two tries to find his voice as Jean was mindlessly pulling on the edge of his jersey. The number 4 was a bloody red, and it suited Jean way more than it should have. “Why would he like me,” he finally mumbled.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Jean said in a frown, hands stilling in their thoughtful motion, like Nathaniel had just said something inacceptable. He was serious, more than he usually was anyways, and tension seeped back between the two of them, like an old friend they could never quite get rid of. Suddenly they were staring at each other, swallowing, Adam’s apples bobbing up and down, eyes drifting from each other’s to their lips, and Nathaniel caught him moistening his lips to keep himself from leaning in for a kiss they couldn’t afford.

Not here, no with them, and not now. They didn’t know when. They didn’t know _if_. But they hoped, oh, they hoped.

Nathaniel off-handedly realized they hadn’t kissed in a while. Not too long for mundane beings, but them, _them_ , who could hardly stand being apart for a moment, they needed each other’s skin and breath like they needed their oxygen—constantly, without moderation, never-ending.

He looked away, tense and hot and searching for Meredith anywhere, perhaps to remind himself what it felt like being pinned on a bed, being—

“Nathaniel.”

The hand on the back of his neck was much like the one he’d rested on Jean at the banquet. Grounding, firm, too, like he didn’t really have a say in this anymore. Jean had noticed, of course—the way he always seemed to seach for Meredith, to give himself three steps for each she took, trying to apprehend and plan ahead and avoid avoid avoid, so scared they’d end up face to face, so scared they’d have to touch. He could confront her anytime, that wasn’t the problem. The memories however, they never quite left, and he couldn’t stomach the thought of brushing Meredith’s skin even on an accident. It made practice trickier, but he wasn’t part of the Ravens yet, and Meredith was a goalkeeper—if things were alright, they’d never even have to touch.

Still, he tensed at the contact, old habits so fierce they could barely completely disappear. Muscle memory, perhaps—the ghost of his father’s strong hands lingering, vicious, pulling him back into Nathan’s grip for a vivid second.

“Nathaniel,” he called again—so, so soft.

A few more seconds and, finally, he was relaxing in his touch, closing his eyes to shut everyone out. When he snapped them open again he caught a glimpse of Kevin staring near the goal, Riko talking at his sides—their eyes met and they glared emptily for a moment, then Kevin looked down at the court’s floor and turned away, and it felt like he was giving up on something, like he was allowing a moment of tenderness he’d always denied them.

After practice, Nathaniel’s stitches had opened again; hard for them to heal when he was pushing himself so hard every day, pulling and pulling on them with every single move. He couldn’t even stand up in the showers by the end of the day, body exhausted by both the effort and the lingering traces of violence painting his body. Bruises were distracting but acceptable—at the end of a demanding day, however, they were almost too painful, like he couldn’t bump into anything without wincing. He was swollen and hurt, and it pained Jean to see him like that.

By the time Nathaniel had finished stripping and cautiously put away his exy uniform with the others to be washed, everyone had gone out of the showers already. Jean waited for him on the bench beside him and he hesitated a short moment before slinging an arm around his naked waist, helping Nathaniel to the showers as the last bits of voices faded in the corridor behind closed doors.

He left him there, a shower away, washing his own hair as he rubbed it vividly, eyes squeezed shut to avoid getting soap in. He was too focused to even realize Nathaniel had sat down the wet ground, head resting on his crossed forearms and eyes closed in wordless exhaustion. He was quiet like he often was when he was too tired to move, and violence seemed so far-off it was hardly conceivable. Nathaniel looked softer like that, curled up in a human ball of flesh and wounds, scarred skin and broken bones.

He asked for permission when Nathaniel’s short intake of breath echoed with pain in the empty showers, and when Nathaniel slowly nodded against his arm, he walked to his naked form and poured soap into his red hair. He washed it painstakingly like he’d never quite put that much care in anything, and he was perhaps too aware of the privilege Nathaniel was granting him—for someone who’d never liked to be touched, it was now practically impossible to get that green light from him after Meredith. That Jean was washing his hair, tenderly so, was unexplainable.

Washing turned into kissing and Jean pressed wet kisses to his scarred skin. Shoulders, back, spine; he kneeled behind him onto the floor and gently caressed the bruises, teasingly pressing thumbs into them to get discontented whimpers from Nathaniel’s unresponsive form.

Nathaniel made it as though to turn and protest, the words _fuck off_ hanging right there on his lips—but then their eyes met and they both stilled in the same breath, quiet as ever, heartbeats hardly toned down by the sound of scorching water splashing down their heads. They took their time observing one another, resisting the urge to kiss.

It was Nathaniel who broke the silence, and if Jean hadn’t even expected him to, he much less expected the words he said. “I think mom would have liked you.”

Somehow, it was something Nathaniel had grown convinced of. It was a quiet way to say Jean mattered, and Nathaniel would do anything for him if need be—perhaps also a question, to know if that _thing_ they had, whatever it was, would end when they’d leave Edgar Allan. A part of him knew they’d discussed it before, but every passing second, everything felt a little more different. A little more difficult and hopeless.

Jean understood. He understood and he cupped Nathaniel’s face so that he’d only be able to look up at him and listen carefully, no exit allowed.

“Listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you, you foolish child, because I’m not going to say it twice. I’m not leaving you alone. I’m never leaving you alone. You don’t have to be and it’s not my role to do that. Allow yourself not to be.”

Nathaniel closed his eyes, exhausted but relieved by the words still gently echoing in his ears, though they were no surprise. He thought about how weak and stupid it was to find comfort and happiness in such trivial things and words and caresses, in something like _Jean_ , and for a brief moment everything was clear and reasonable, logical, at its right place in the universe. He pondered on how much he’d changed and how he’d gone from an independent, untouchable monster of a boy to someone whose only weakness was Jean—someone whose only strength and tenderness was Jean, too.

“If you leave me I might have to kill you,” Nathaniel said as he looked down. It was easier to not think about his lips when they were out of sight, though he still was able to tell when they eventually curled up in a weak smile, Jean’s thumbs stroking mindless caresses on his cheekbones.

He didn’t protest.


End file.
